False Positive
by silverluna
Summary: A case of mistaken identity puts Lassiter in the path of a dangerous, gravely calm and patient ex-con who arrives in Santa Barbara demanding a task impossible for even the most gifted local fake psychics. Lassiter, unwilling and reluctant, is forced to play along—without the slightest inclination of how to be "psychic", let alone be Shawn Spencer. NOT SLASH.
1. Prologue: Nothing To Lose

Main Characters: Carlton Lassiter, OMC, Shawn Spencer, Chief Karen Vick, Burton "Gus" Guster

Secondary Characters: Buzz McNab, Juliet O'Hara, Henry Spencer

Genres: Drama, Crime, Suspense, Mystery, Hurt/Comfort

Timeline: Set in Season Five following "Romeo and Juliet and Juliet" and during "Feet, Don't Kill Me Now". Main action of the story follows a slightly alternate ending to "Feet, Don't Kill Me Now": the case of the episode has been closed but Gus and Lassiter's tap dance recital at the end of the episode has not occurred yet. Therefore, Lassiter still visits the dance studio to prepare for the recital.

Summary: He came to this country with only a name and a few stories, holding tightly to the details that meant the most, to the ones he knew he could use.

The name led him to face, mistakenly captioned in the local newspaper. But he didn't know that, didn't know how often these local American newspapers erred.

The face in the newspaper was Carlton Lassiter's, but the name on the man's tongue was Shawn Spencer's. It was proof enough, and nothing said otherwise could change his mind.

A case of mistaken identity puts Lassiter in the path of a dangerous, gravely calm and patient ex-con who arrives in Santa Barbara demanding a task impossible for even the most gifted local fake psychics. But he's desperate, he's been biding his time for the past decade, and he's determined to get what he wants.

Lassiter, unwillingly and reluctantly, is forced to play along—without the slightest inclination of how to be "psychic", let alone be Shawn Spencer.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Title of story and song lyrics quote within at beginning are credited and belong to the band/group Shock of Pleasure and their song "False Positive".

Author's Note: Originally, this idea for this story struck me a year or more ago, but when I had confided the brainstorm to another author, she told me the concept was impossible—but I didn't think it was. Maybe crazy, but not impossible. ;) Then she helped me brainstorm further—which brought me to another layer/dimension of just what could be considered impossible—or not. I held onto the ideas and kept exploring the layers and dimensions—as well as the OMC that formed as a result. I have a considerable amount of the story written, but this will be a WIP.

_Hellseher = _psychic (in German)

Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading!

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**False Positive**

A _Psych_ Story

by silverluna

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"_What kinds of signals come from me?_

_Falsely accused, positively."_

—Shock of Pleasure_, _from_ "False Positive"_

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**Prologue: ****Nothing To Lose, Nothing But You **

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He had more than a comprehensive grip on English, but he was self-taught, learning it out of necessity rather than a want to speak the language. Too many deals, even in the earliest days, when he was no more than thirteen years old, on the outskirts of a shaky world he wanted so desperately to be a part of, required the fluent, steady tongue that he did not follow; losing out on easy cash had made him more determined than angry, even when foreigners judged him on his own soil. Though he knew his accent could be traced by those much too keen for their own good, and that some of his pronunciations went ultimately imperfect, he could form thoughts in his head in English, slide them like silk through his teeth, and be instantly understood.

A small victory, perhaps. Even smaller, then, was keeping hold of this tongue while he rotted in prison. Now Russian he knew enough of to get by, even when guards would rather spit on him than speak; he learned to decipher what he heard under their breaths, and relished every piece of slang he picked up. Words, he knew, on the outside, always had their uses. On the inside, grunts, gestures and silence were often favored, anything preferable to the screams of tortured men, or the constant pleas of innocence, or the restless whispered chatter of escape. Some languages were universal.

Emil Frey took in the neat rows of headstones that stretched across the grounds of this rather large public cemetery he had found himself drawn to—a foolish errand. He had to come; he didn't dare go home to Berlin, but it might just be suicide anyway to linger in Moscow so soon after his escape. Still, after ten tiresome years in the treacherous prison—half of that spent in solitary confinement, Emil desired company—and even dead company was better than none.

And there was the off-chance that some fallen comrades had found their ways into mass, unmarked graves just on the edge of this property. Surely, some priest of less strict faith could have absolved them enough to lay them to rest in consecrated ground.

In light of ten years, Emil suspected it was less safe for him to appear in sparsely populated areas; no matter how much time passed, those who had been harmed, or those who were survivors of those who had not survived would remember him, if not immediately then too soon. He may be thinner now, with more graying facial hair, with nails ungodly long that trapped dirt, but not blood, beneath them, but they could tell who they were looking at because of his eyes. He had little reason to stay, and it ate at him that he could not flee the country when he wanted because he must wait on others to bring him to proper documents with which to get him on a plane, get him to the states.

Emil sighed. He had ulterior motives for coming here; he had wanted to plant his feet on these grounds and let his heart wander to find out if Anja might be dead, buried here. Emil did not want to believe it, but Anja had sent no word, not even a scrawl of code, to him in the time he was imprisoned. It could still not be safe, or she might have been captured herself, or, he hoped most of all, she had slipped her own skin for another, gliding seamlessly into the onslaught of coming years, without him, in someone else's life. At least then, he told himself, she would still be alive.

A month—just thirty short days earlier—Emil had heard a rumor, in broken English. A long shot, even foolhardy to pursue, but he felt he had nothing to lose. A decade had been stolen already, but any time gone by not knowing Anja's fate was stolen time, in prison or living free.

Dead company—and the muted faces still in his head from so many years past; these were the extent of his contact with humans for the past five years. Perhaps, it was not five years; longer or shorter, he had no way of knowing. It was out of chance, or a sentence served, that he had been moved from solitary to a slightly bigger cage on a cell block just three months ago. Human voices, most in grunts, he could hear, but still none he could see. Guards, they did not register to him as human contact, all cut from the same stone cold marble. He still took meals in his cell, and showered in the lone stall he'd been fortunate enough to visit twice a week prior. It was is if it was not a punishment to him, keeping him away but out of protection for the other inmates, as if he—a distant relative of a once fugitive war criminal—was so much more despicable than child killers or rapists. An old cellmate, a meth fiend, overdosed, slit the throats of his brother's children, then raided his brother's house for the pithy savings kept between mattresses. But he, Emil, was much worse. Emil felt his face crinkle, recalling a trace of irony, what he had known well upon being thrown in to that time behind bars. What he had been charged with was nowhere near the most despicable crimes he had committed with his own bare hands, but his charges were enough of a sin.

Loving Anja and letting her love him back, still loving him after finding out who he was—and learning her own down and dirty dealings—these might be the worst of his sins. They were not killers, not professionals, in the least, but neither feared to get their hands dirty.

The dirt, in all its muckiest forms, made it harder to remember what color their skin had been before it was dirty, before their fingernails were stained with blood. "I don't think I was ever clean," Anja had whispered to him once, so many years ago, after a departure was guaranteed.

Emil had stroked her head, one arm around her, her lips next to his ear. "No one is," he agreed.

X X X

_I had another dream about you, Anja._ Emil walked, taking the path through the cemetery. He stayed to one side, as if someone were about to pass, but truthfully, he liked to edge along the grass. It was unchanged, after ten years, cut neatly, cared for, as the rest of the grounds were. This was also true of smaller boneyards; even the ones maintained by family alone were kept well enough. Only a handful of dreams in the whole of ten years featured her; this latest was just a few days ago, before he was on the outside. She was, at first, no more recognizable than a tangle of hair, long like he remembered, pressing to him as if it were of its own mind. He couldn't touch her, though he tried; reaching out, his knuckles merely bent against clear glass, a thin layer of it between them. Her small oval face was in all that hair; she moved it aside when she could, and kept fighting to keep it at bay. She could see him when she did this, and he could see the swan shape of her thin figure slinking out between her hair.

"Have you eaten?" he asked her. He had the impression his voice did not reach her.

She might have shaped his name, but it did not reach him. She could only smile, and when her errant hand slid through her hair and struck the glass, he awoke.

But it was the because of this psychic that he had dreamed about her; years and years he had suppressed as much of her as he could, because he had no way of knowing.

Emil's eyes swept the rows and rows of headstones. He had passed new graves; dirt still wet, but he had not looked too closely at the names. He was feeling nothing here, not even the anxiety of having to remain in Moscow.

_Hellseher_—all these years and this notion had never occurred to him.

He had almost rather believe she was dead or she was still alive but lost to him. But now, it could be different. He could learn the truth of the circumstances.

In just a few short days, he would be in the air on the way to California.

X X X

After a few weeks in town, Emil had taken to following them, a tail so subtle neither one had seen—for what had they to suspect?—and he sat, still as stone behind the wheel, in plain view of the dance studio on the other side of the street. He waited, as he had been good enough with before his confinement, ignoring the bright sunlight, the heat, the car's engine off. He didn't sweat. He held a local newspaper open, reading the human interest piece slowly, ingesting every word.

It was praise for Santa Barbara's own renowned psychic investigator, a Santa Barbara Police Department consultant, for yet another smartly wrapped up puzzlement of a case. Emil decided that, just from looking at the newspaper's black and white quality, it was difficult to guess the man in the picture had the look of a psychic; in fact, he seemed a serious man, tucked away in a suit and tie, not a hair out of place.

Was it a professional look? Professional to offset offbeat, even eccentric, methods of this man? Certainly, claiming a divine connection to powers higher than Emil's own imagining must be a difficult choice—especially if one chose to go to the public with this knowledge. But this man, this Shawn Spencer, displayed his gift proudly, expecting censure and dismissing naysayers with his repeated mental prowess. He used his gift to help others, which must have been great enough a reward for him to continue his public service—and great enough for the local inspectors to consider him time and time again. He must, Emil thought, be a commodity very unique—and worthy.

Even so, he had crossed seas to find out for himself, to be assured that the stories that had reached him weren't the subject of idle fiction. And he intended to find this man, this _hellseher_, worthy.

X X X

Emil looked up from the newspaper, considering his journey, considering the ease with which he passed through airport checkpoints, how he was not even noticed by American security officers—whom, he had been told by his contacts just outside of Moscow, had cracked down on liberties in order to detect the faintest hues of terrorism or uprising—in spite of his European attire, of his faint accent, of the slow ways he counted out his American dollars. Through it all, he had felt little, and had kept to himself when he could, and had been polite when needing to interact.

He had not been questioned to his business in the states, nor required to answer how long he was planning to stay. Nature had blessed him with neither beauty nor ugliness, only the appearance of common man, neither working class nor idle rich—but he could pass. A fair trade for what he was to make of his existence.

Emil's first week kept him occupied as he prepared—locating a residence, buying the staples—amazed and disgusted at the opulence of American groceries, rows and rows of milk and bread kept neat as gravestones—and becoming as familiar with city maps and local businesses as a tourist could ever hope to become. He acquired a car, taking a second week to become accustomed to the steering wheel on the wrong side; he practiced driving up and down a street with bars on one side and a pawn shop, a liquor store and a hardware store with bars on their windows on the other. But nonetheless he kept faith that his soon-to-be-friend would remain under the glass dome of Santa Barbara—and he was not wrong.

This man that he meant to acquire had no reason to leave—no reason at all to be spooked.

Half a week ago, he watched as Mr. Spencer's partner, a black man the newspaper told him bore the curious name of Bruton Gaster, with a style less repressive than that of Mr. Spencer's, argue with another white man whose style was nothing short of sloppy. If not in the states, Emil would have thought the man, with his spiky hair and loosely buttoned shirt, to be nothing short of a delinquent or a beggar. Emil did not know the identity of this stranger, of whom he had only caught glimpses of before bearing witness to the argument—that was, without being able to hear what was said. He made guesses, based on the jerking, aggressive movements of both men, that they were not friends—that, in fact, the one man owed the other money.

And Emil watched Mr. Spencer sit behind the wheel of the blue car which Emil had been told his partner, Bruton Gaster, was allotted via his place of employment. He watched Mr. Spencer grow exasperated while waiting; perhaps accosting by this sloppy white man was a common occurrence. And he watched Mr. Gaster jump into the passenger seat, making final emphatic hand gestures at the man still on the sidewalk in front of the dance studio.

The man left behind looked, to Emil, confused or saddened, but he was of no concern, his figure fading in the rearview mirror as Emil followed the blue car at a slow pace. The blue car swept through the city, stopping at buildings, residences and even the police station.

Emil waited and watched, approaching no citizens, speaking to few people, having no need. His head cleared of the immediate past, as well as the days he spent getting to the states and of the long preparation to meet his target, he found himself rewarded: Mr. Spencer arrived at the dance studio alone.

X X X

"Where's Lassiter?" Shawn sneered after slamming the driver's side door of Gus's company car a little harder than necessary. He watched with pleasure as Gus winced, but did nothing to scold Shawn. "Thought he was your ride back."

"He didn't show," Gus grumbled, prying the keys from Shawn's fingers. He had waited outside for five minutes, then inside for an additional ten, since he had been early, but when his tap class was about to start, he gave up. Gus thought it was upsetting him more than it should, since it was _just_ Lassiter.

Shawn continued his train of thought as the two piled into Gus's car. "It's Lassiter, what did you expect? And didn't you say he was more insulting about tapping than I was?"

Gus sighed, raising and then dropping his shoulders. "Yeah, that's true, but he actually liked it, unlike you. He was pretty terrible at it, but he gave it . . . some pretty good effort."

"Unlike when he's doing detective work. Come on, let's get something to eat. Jerked chicken, what?"

"You know that's right." Gus put on a smile but within, he was still nagged that Lassiter had been a no-show. The recital was coming up and God knew that scarecrow of a man needed all the practice he could get. Though he wouldn't say that he enjoyed the detective's company so much, it had been almost nice to have someone else whom he knew who appreciated tap dancing, even to the smallest degree.

"Come on, now that we're done with the partner bait and switch tango swing dance, you can't really tell me you miss Lassie?" Shawn teased, settling himself into the passenger seat. "Didn't he practically starve you to death?"

Gus pulled out of the lot, not even attempting to counter Shawn's mixed up dance metaphor. "At first, he was more funny than you—"

Shawn's audible gasp made Gus roll his eyes. "Right, now you're going to tell me that you don't miss having Juliet as your partner."

"I don't, actually," Shawn said, crossing his arms. "She didn't know how to finish my 'hamburger' sentence."

Gus sighed, making a turn towards the SBPD; he knew Shawn failed to pick up the check for their latest case, even though that's what Shawn had borrowed his car to do. It didn't seem right that he should defend Lassiter, even if crime waited for no man or no man's tap dancing class. "No, I don't miss him."

Shawn grinned. "Who would? Hey, where are you going? We're supposed to get lunch!"


	2. Chapter 1: I'm Just An Animal

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Also do not own references to Snoop Dogg's song "Gin and Juice"; the TV show _Crazy Like A Fox_ or the TV movie _Still Crazy Like A Fox_.

Author's Note: WOW! Many thanks for the awesome reviews and feedback for the prologue, as well as the follows! :D So happy to have you here! Happy reading. :)

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Advanced thanks.

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**Chapter One: I'm Just An Animal And Cannot Explain A Life**

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X X X

The pair walked down the SBPD hallways, Shawn keeping an eye out for mischief he could get into in lieu of getting lunch while Gus kept his mind on getting their money. This led him to repeat the chorus of "Gin and Juice" under his breath: "Got my mind on my money and my money on my mind" and nod his head in time with the beat—until Shawn caught a glimpse of Juliet's new darkened hair and rushed towards her. Now was as good a time as any to collect on that raincheck hug.

Unfortunately, Juliet turned before he could get to her for a sneak attack. "Shawn!" she called out, looking all business and in charge handing out file folders to waiting officers. Dobson got the last one and went off down the hall in the opposite direction. "Have you seen Lassiter? Gus, how about you?"

"Damned if I know," Gus grumped. "He missed a tap class."

Juliet paused, raising an eyebrow. She was unable to properly mask the smirk at the corner of her mouth at the mention of "tap class"—nothing against Gus, of course. It was just a funny notion to her that her perpetually uptight partner could give himself, even partway, into an art (that did not involve shooting at a target, paper or otherwise). To be fair, she had seen him do a little shuffle dance when he got the better of Shawn on a case and had heard him sing Happy Birthday to McNab once, but those weren't the same.

Shawn chuckled, reading the look quick as a blink on her face easily.

Before he could clue in Gus, Juliet recovered. "Sorry to hear that, Gus. Something must have come up."

"The man has a phone, Juliet. He could have called," Gus informed her with a sniff.

Juliet patted Gus on the shoulder and gave him a meaningful look. Since when would Lassiter extend common curtesy to, well, anyone? Gus nodded and sighed. "He missed a good one. He might have been able to solve three cold cases, it was _that_ good."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Gus, p-leeaze, you're giving both Lassie and tap dancing _way_ too much credit."

"Hey!" Gus and Juliet admonished.

Shawn raised both hands, but in a mock gesture of surrender; he was smirking. It felt surprisingly awesome to insult both Lassie and Gus's stupid dancing in the same sentence. He made a note to do it again, as soon as Lassie was there to overhear it.

"Did the chief call you in?" Juliet asked, continuing her brisk pace down the hall. Shawn stepped on Gus's foot in order to be just two steps behind Jules; Gus grumbled, caught up and elbowed Shawn in the ribs. "Too hard!" Shawn whisper-griped.

"No, we're here to pick up the check from the last case," Gus answered, glaring at Shawn. "Because someone else couldn't be bothered to do it by himself."

Juliet smiled in spite of herself; she had little time at the moment for shenanigans and tomfoolery, but she couldn't help that she often enjoyed seeing Shawn and Gus. Sometimes, their childish bickering and obscure movie references distracted her and lightened her mood—on cases when she couldn't focus, and other times brought her balance and peace—as if there would ever be doubts she was in the right line of work.

"Gus, I came across the _Crazy Like A Fox_ reunion movie, _Still Crazy Like A Fox_!" Shawn protested, surpassing Gus to briskly walk side by side with Juliet. "Jules, I also sensed there's new case the chief will be calling us for," Shawn stated, touching a hand to his temple, "so it's good that we're already here. Unless you have some vibrations you'd like to share with me about it." He winked at her and grinned.

Without missing a beat Juliet countered, "Unless you're going to read my mind, maybe you should ask your father about it."

Behind them, Gus chuckled, and nodded knowingly when Shawn looked back to glare. He added, to change the subject, "I can't believe you could even watch _Crazy Like A Fox_ without drawing comparisons to you and your dad."

"Gus, that would only work if we were both named Henry. Or Shawn. Or Spencer and Spencie."

"Oh, _not_ because one of you isn't a lawyer?" Gus threw back.

Shawn huffed. "Gus, could you really see me and my dad involved in somewhat humorous adventures together? Week after week? Year after year? Plus a reunion movie?"

Juliet cleared her throat and pointed to the payroll office. "This is your stop."

"Jules, we didn't need the armed escort, but you know I appreciate it." Shawn grinned, gently draping his arm across Juliet's shoulders. "Gus, not so much."

Gus made an "uh" sound at the back of his throat, one that Juliet interpreted as gratitude. Just as gently, she removed Shawn's arm. "You're welcome, Gus," Juliet said over her shoulder, smiling. "Don't worry, I will make sure Carlton calls you when I see him. He told me there's a performance coming up."

"That's right." Gus flicked his nose. "I'll be doing a duet with the instructor."

Shawn clicked his tongue. "After you begged him."

"No!" Gus shot back. "He asked me."

Facing them and smiling, Juliet said, "I'm looking forward to going. Carlton already bought me a ticket, can you believe that?" She laughed, seeing both Shawn's and Gus's incredulous looks. Turning to Gus briefly, Juliet added, "I'm sure there was a solid reason he missed your class today. But can you guys do me a favor? If you happen to see him before I do, tell him to call me." She smiled again, nodding at Shawn before heading off.

X X X

Carlton was late. He didn't much care about it, but he found himself hurrying anyway, and admonishing himself for it. The truth was, he couldn't help that enjoyed Guster's sissy dancing; something about it was freeing and helped clear his head—and he didn't even have to buy extra rounds of ammo. He found himself surprised that, even after being caught dancing next to Guster in the station by his real partner and Spencer, he didn't want to quit. Good thing too, as his clumsy steps had helped bring him clarity in time to solve the case.

Carlton smiled briefly, thinking about that arrest. It was just as he had told Guster earlier in the investigation—people had sex and killed each other.

He rounded the corner, stepping onto the sidewalk that would take him to the front doors of the dance studio. He checked his watch, looking down for half a second. Ahead of him, a pedestrian appeared, walking towards him. Something cool about his manner was disarming enough for Lassiter to barely notice the fairly nondescript man; even when face to face, out in the open, Lassiter suspected no edge, no angle. Barely sparing the thought, he figured the man was heading towards the parking lot on the side of the studio.

Not even suspecting when the man grinned—a sight Lassiter caught out of the corner of his eye as he raised an arm to remove the sunglasses from his eyes—close enough for only the two of them to see. Then he was stung; sure of it, Lassiter jerked his left arm across his body to knock away the bee, only to find his hand wrapped around a syringe. He yanked it out and felt the man grip his arm.

"Gerrtoff," Lassiter slurred, indecently attempting to pull away. He clamped his teeth together as if to trap in a flow of words that wanted to get out—a flow that would surely be as incoherent as the attempted singular two. Even within his head he couldn't think the words "Get off" without feeling a tilt. The sidewalk was moving. Far away, he heard his own shoe scuffle on the pavement as his foot turned sideways.

Still, a hand gripped his forearm, guiding him in a direction he knew he didn't want to go in. "Whaz—" Lassiter's eyes watered and his lids drooped. It was a mistake to try out speech again, but he only wanted to make sense of what might be happening.

Distantly, he thought of trying to get to his car, tucked in a lot behind the dance studio. But his car was a blur, a blue smear of paint or light across concrete, and it was getting very dark.

X X X

For what could have been a great length of time, Carlton's head and eyes throbbed viciously as he fought his way back to the surface, resisting his body's demands that he go back into the unconscious—or that he go there fully to begin with. Gradually, he regained awareness of thirst, but even then, his vision remained uncooperative; he blinked without tearing up and could make out only muted browns and blacks, then faded yellows. He was also denied the simply ability to keep his chin off his chest—as if he were in a tug of war for his soul. The effects, he surmised, should only be temporary—partial paralysis, seasickness, disorientation; not all of the words that came to mind might be the exact description of what was careening through him, keeping him alienated from full consciousness, but at the very least he could wrap his mind around _effects_. As in, side effects—which could mean an explanation for his current state: _drugs_. _Tranquilizer_ was too slippery to hold onto, but the drug could have been something else, something he couldn't pronounce. Carlton supposed he should be grateful for not getting bashed over the head, but he wasn't in the least.

A voice was speaking close by, but Lassiter couldn't figure out what was being said. It would take three times as long to realize he had been abducted, that this wasn't just a horrible practical joke, the kind that got the perpetrators laughs at first but also got them arrested later. His coherency of thinking, earlier 5 million miles away in space, returned at a speed of Mach 3, eons before his tongue untied itself enough to move around in his mouth in an effort to erase the dryness there. When he finally—maybe after days or weeks of all this—understood the voice's words, he was bewildered enough by them not to speak for the time when they had ran the course of his body via his blood stream and made their way back to his brain unchanged.

"Welcome, Mr. Shawn Spencer."

A very damp smell, musty and moldy, permeated the air, pressed itself against Lassiter's skin and into his nostrils. He couldn't place it, though he suspected it to be old wet towels or a fabric as equally soggy, blackened by spores and water damage, materials beyond repair. He could also smell grime—layers and layers of dust, untouched for years and years—and grease, tricklings of pig fat or motor oil. All of it thick and overpowering.

He felt sick to take in breath, compromising to filter air in through his teeth, rather than his nose, until he could beat the urge to throw up. Carlton leaned back, for the first time aware he was seated on a floor, a hard, solid wall against his back. The floor was equally hard. And when he went to move his limbs he nearly succumbed to the fear he hadn't had the luxury to experience while he was struggling to get out of the grip of the drug.

Thick, silver chains with fat solid links restrained his arms, encircled his waist—held him tight. He tested them as much as he dared. He had a limited range of motion, however, able to raise his arms halfway to his chest and out to his side a foot from his thighs. His legs were free, but he wasn't ready or steady to get to his feet. If he could.

His gun . . . in bits and pieces he recalled storing his holster and Glock .17 in the trunk of his Crown Vic, recalled some snit one of the dance instructors had been in about having guns on the premises. In favor of Guster—which sounded wrong; he must be more out of his mind than he originally thought—he'd compromised, keeping his ankle holster and Glock 9mm in their rightful places, only out of view under the cuff of his pants. Where was his badge? Carlton stared blearily at his torso and waist, realizing even more slowly that his suit jacket was gone—he'd stowed his badge within the left jacket pocket opposite his shoulder holster before getting out of his car.

His jacket . . . Carlton recalled being viciously yanked from the fabric when he jerked out of the grasp of his attacker; a second skin that peeled from his body as the man fought to hold on. Carlton didn't know what could have happened to it. He had almost fallen but his attacker grabbed his elbows and pulled him back in close.

X X X

Emil planned for the extraction to be smooth, and had come to understand that the man rendered a vessel by otherworldly correspondence was often not as observant of the living as he should be. This would work in his favor, he knew, as the factor that he was not the least known here. No one had seen his eyes, not in the way that they would remember, for none of these here had watched as those eyes were branded to memory with hot pokers and irons.

None here until he had Mr. Spencer, awake, focused only on him.

Emil was still partially existing in the suspended measurements of prison time; in Moscow he knew it was eleven hours later, but it hardly made a difference, especially in this cellar with its mere sliver of a window. He still marveled it was nearly double the size of his old cell. While he waited for his friend to awaken, the sun went down. Emil made himself a simple meal, taking it in the same room, seated directly across from him.

X X X

The man before him had no odor that Lassiter could discern, not one of sweat or other natural body odor or of cologne. He didn't even smell of food or drink. And though they sat seeped in shadows cast only by low watt bulbs, Lassiter guessed this man would have a limited profile, if one at all. His nose and chin, his whole face and person were small, compact.

Lassiter blinked, feeling suddenly stupid. This man before him had gotten the best of him, had somehow managed to spirit him off; a tricky memory reminded him that, for the brief seconds they had stood side by side, Lassiter had well towered over him.

And yet, he recalled painfully the grip on his upper arm, pulling him in a direction his staggering feet and sagging knees weren't keen to go in by themselves. The grip had been strong enough and the body capable enough to steer him with just the right volume of force. It may have looked, if there had been any witnesses that time of day, not like an abduction at all but just a man steadying another who might had too much to drink.

Lassiter strained against the chains holding him to the wall; the leash was short.

He had seen the man before he'd registered the voice speaking to him, but Lassiter hadn't been able to believe right away what he was seeing. Following the colors, the basement grew in shape, then the figure took on edges and curves, enough for Carlton to finally understand that it was not _part_ of the wall but was _leaning_ up against it.

The two of them couldn't be more than seven feet apart, if that; he could close the distance if he stretched his legs out all the way, but Lassiter kept his knees drawn in. The figure had been staring at him without looking away as long as Lassiter had been aware he was there.

"I was surprised to find you to carry firearms, Mr. Spencer," his attacker told him quietly after a long stretch of silence. Lassiter felt his heart sink; he couldn't reach his arm that far to check if his 9mm was in its place without the intention being obvious, but now he had to be almost certain it wasn't still secured to him. And with the same confusion he'd felt before, Lassiter tried to wrap his head around why this man was using _that_ name when talking to _him_.

He had already looked around; this basement was a small area, almost claustrophobic; there wasn't a single place to hide, and nothing to hide behind, or under. There were only two occupants here.

"But it is of no matter," the man continued, still calm and quiet. "For now that you have recovered, you have a duty to me. What I have lost, you will find."


	3. Chapter 2: The Ways To Disappear

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: I apologize for the delay in updating; I keep getting asked to work on days off, which leaves me less free time during the week. (And next week I will be on vacation with no internet access.) Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing and favoriting and following! And special thanks to the reviewers who have helped inspire me. Hope your interest continues to be piqued with this chapter. :)

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thanks again for reading! :)

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**Chapter Two: I Count The Ways To Disappear **

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The shock, which had pressed itself white across Carlton's mouth, was finally starting to wear off, enough for him to lick his lips and taste a growing, growling anger there.

_Spencer. _Never had a single word or name hit with him more fury than he could remember; a sucker punch, or an unexpected bolt of lightning on a perfectly sunny day. Spencer was _nowhere_ in sight and yet his transgressions had managed to attract the wrong kind of attention. This was a mistake, a horrible misunderstanding—yet the chains around his body said otherwise.

Finally a single word pushed out of his throat with the force of a burp. _"No."_

The man blinked, taking his time to absorb the retort. He believed he had been polite in making his request and felt a flicker of irritation at being met with resistance. "No?" he repeated softly, but with the same inflection, staring hard at his guest.

"So you _did_ actually hear me, you son of a bitch," Lassiter spat, struggling against his bonds, only stopping as he fell back against the wall, dizzied. If he had sense he'd conserve his strength, but he was too wound up to think straight. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Yes, Mr. Spencer," the man replied, "I am of able mind."

Lassiter felt rage press under his skin, felt his temples going red. "Listen, you delusional freak show, I am not—Mr. Spencer! Get out your goddamn keys and let me out of these chains!"

A flash of grin, the same Carlton had seen on the sidewalk before being "stung". Without meaning to, Carlton leaned back, pressed himself further against the wall and drew his legs closer toward his body. "Ah, now I do understand—this is not the way you might go about a business deal," the man explained, looking too smug for his own good, "but perhaps I took for granted that you would be so willing. For your sake, I have the mastered patience to wait on as long as it will take."

"I'm not who you think I am," Carlton argued, offended to be challenged in the domain of patience. He could out-patience anyone, he was certain, but he wasn't keen to wait this man out—not until he knew more about what he was dealing with. Not until this whole thing felt less unreal. Carlton knew his captor had at least one weapon—Carlton's own Glock 9mm—and guessed he had at least one more syringe full of the unknown toxin that the man had used to bring him here. Strong stuff, a weapon of its own breed.

"You are exactly who I know you to be, Mr. Spencer, for I have been observing you for nearly two weeks."

"You've—you've _what?_" Carlton stared back, incredulous, his jaw slack.

It was given so casually, in what Carlton, in other circumstances, might guess was a sociopath's conversational tone. A thin line ran through his mind, attempting to connect him to the past weeks, but what occurred before his attack and imprisonment presented in shaky fragments. He was dumbfounded that he'd had a tail that he hadn't stopped, or had missed seeing an extra shadow. And he couldn't imagine anyone taking their own precious time to stalk him when it would have been much easier to hang around the police station.

Carlton's mouth pulled into a tight frown and found a low growl at the base of his throat. "Listen, you sick twist, you haven't the slightest who I am, or how much trouble you're going to be in if you don't release me asap. I'm Head Detective of the Santa Barbara—"

The man chuckled and cut off Lassiter's words. "Yes, yes, I know this. I have heard of this habit you have, often referring to yourself with an unofficial title—Head Psychic Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department."

Blood was draining from Lassiter's face. Threats—even somewhat empty threats, at this point—had no effect on this man, who behaved as if he hadn't even heard them.

"You refer to yourself this way to make appearance of importance, yet your gifts better reflect your importance," the man continued, his face in a half smile. "Notions of your great gifts have brought me to cross seas, to find you."

Lassiter, still incredulous, listened, becoming less sure if the man was joking or being serious. "You did more than find me," he countered in a low voice, realizing a second later what he'd just said, but some kind of sense forced him from correcting it.

"As I said, Mr. Spencer, I respect that this is not what you would consider a usual place of meeting—"

"Meeting?" Lassiter repeated, shocked again. "You abducted me!"

The man shook his head slowly. "It matters little how we came to be here; what only matters now, Mr. Spencer, is—"

Lassiter cursed, pulling at his bonds, ignoring the chains digging into his waist and wrists. "You son of a bitch, I'm only going to say it one more time. I am not Mr. Spencer!"

The man pursed his lips and sat up straight. His eyes lost their traces of amusement. "What only matters now," he picked up, "is that I was sent word of you and your gifts to act as my guide. Perhaps a guide into the world of spirits."

No reaction. No reaction to his protestations, or to his curses. Carlton felt inexplicably lightheaded; not once had the man grown angry or raised his voice. Not once had he resorted to violence; but then again, Lassiter could hardly fight back. He'd been given no chance to fight back when he was grabbed—a fast acting drug had taken care of that. Was the man before him weak, a coward, or had he no need to literally kick a man who was already down—especially one he himself had put down? No need to fight if the fight wasn't fair? It was hard for Carlton to figure; given any chance too many he chose anger.

And this man chose ideas—wrong ones.

"You made a mistake," Lassiter tried again, searching his captor's face for any trace of any thing he could use.

"I have not," his captor retorted firmly, "I have been careful. Now, you must cease your denials."

"Go to hell!" Lassiter snapped. Nothing about this situation gave him any reason to fully cooperate; he might be a little scared but he wasn't desperate enough yet. Lassiter blew out a loud breath and set his mouth. He was revising his earlier decision not to wait the man out.

Again, his captor pursed his lips and squared his shoulders. "As I have said, I have all the time in the world, Mr. Spencer."

"You have nowhere to be?" Lassiter snapped derisively. "No one's missing you?"

"This is where I have to be," the man replied calmly. "And it is not that one is ever truly missing," the man smiled as he spoke, "if there is someone who knows where you are."

Lassiter glared at him, unable to bit his tongue fast enough. "It's no good if that that _someone_ isn't telling another living soul," he spat back, seething.

A silence stretched between them. The man had ceased to smile and had instead locked eyes with his captive.

X X X

Maybe he had been out of the business too long; had the rules changed? Were there different standards when it was only man to man—with one so tenacious, so resistant, even when wrapped in chains? Emil had never met a man so unafraid of him, not even those who put on a brave face or let loose brave talk at first, but still eventually broke. Still, his guest had only been conscious for two hours, and then, not coherent enough until the last thirty minutes.

Mr. Spencer had a strong voice, loud and boastful, sarcastic and angry. He spat oaths with no care for his eternal soul and dared to make demands when he was in no position to do so.

His eyes were the color of sapphires, cold cut stones, unblinking, matching Emil's moves.

It was, Emil decided, refreshing to be challenged—in fact, this _hellseher_ was proving his mettle and his worth; there would be no other on this earth who would know what happened to Anja. A peace settled over Emil in the hard silence as they watched each other, neither budging an inch. He had made the correct decision, choosing this journey, choosing this supposed formidable man on faith.

And now his savior had a face.

Perhaps . . . Mr. Spencer needed convincing, a reminder, that he, too, was in the right place.

X X X

"There is no use in this plea, my friend," the man notified him, his voice steady and calm again. "I have proof of your identity." He reached into a shirt pocket and tossed a folded newspaper into the small distance between them. It flipped over on its way to Lassiter, landing on his thighs and revealing a large advertisement for an upcoming Cinnamon Festival in Ventura. Lassiter scanned it, barely registering the dates written on the bottom of the ad. "What's this?" he demanded, his own voice sounding rocky and distant.

The man made a sweeping gesture, indicating Lassiter turn the paper over. Slowly, Lassiter did just that. And there, in black and white print was his picture.

"That is you with your business partner, Bruton Gaster," the man stated, loosely crossing his arms and adjusting his back against the wall. "I know that he is your partner because I was told, and then I spent enough time watching him as well."

"Bruton Gaster?" Lassiter repeated, equal parts flabbergasted and annoyed to overpower the chill he felt at his captor's words. He pulled the newspaper clipping as far towards his face as he was able to study it all for himself.

It was there, in black and white, as the man had told him. Carlton stood next to Guster, who was on his right, in the photograph, and underneath their pictures, the fateful text: _Bruton Gaster, Shawn Spencer_. Standing next to Guster on the other side, out of frame except for a trace of nose and gelled hair, was the real Shawn Spencer. Lassiter stared at the "proof", the same earlier fury burning the pit of his stomach at that nose and hair, as well as a frenzied bout of annoyance for the fact checkers and proofreaders of the _Santa Barbara Star, _infamous for being wrong.

The information spun wildly in his head: his insistence at pushing O'Hara aside after her return and then tagging along to Guster's tap class; the temporary partner "unofficial reassignment"; his own continued voluntary visits to the dance studio following the case's wrap—and the last place he might have been seen.

Undone by a caption; this was a scenario tailored for Spencer's abilities to talk himself out of (almost) every form of trouble. (His constant monologuing had worked for him right up until he was shot—but even following that, Spencer had not learned his lesson and never shut his mouth.)

Some of the bravado Lassiter was maintaining for himself was getting thin; residue of earlier fear upon realizing the danger he was in was making its way back up his throat. So he was _more_ than a little scared, he amended.

Guiltily, as charged, Lassiter looked up, wondering if he was ready to continue arguing. _It was proof of nothing. It was . . . _ He coughed, tasting the staleness of thirst again.

"So," the man told him quietly, "as now you see, I already know who you are. There is no use. I have come a long way to gain your help."

Help? Lassiter balked at the man's words. Right about now he was considering yelling for help of his own.

X X X

His jacket, found under a few neatly pruned shrubs, bore the imprint of treads from a shoe, traces of dirt and other small, still unidentified samples the lab techs had set to working on.

Juliet had stared at the evidence bag as it sat on the Chief's desk, before it had been retrieved to be tested. Carlton's jacket wadded up in a ball and shoved inside. She stared with dread, her jaws tight from clenching and grinding her teeth after, having given him one more call after she got home after her shift, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

Her partner did not go AWOL, did not discard his badge, did not ever have a wrinkle in his suit jacket. Juliet swallowed, blinking a few times to clear her head and eyes.

Lassiter's dark blue Crown Vic was located locked and secure in the lot behind the dance studio—where he'd intended to meet Gus. Juliet drew a sharp breath. She, like the Chief, did not immediately know what the make of this; Juliet wondered if the look on her face was reflected in the Chief's, or visa versa.

His badge, already tested and returned to Karen, at her request, sat atop of file folders in one of her locked desk drawers. It was clean, rather, only bore Lassiter's fingerprints.

A thorough search of his Crown Vic revealed nothing out of the ordinary. No, nothing was out of the ordinary other than Lassiter not being at any place he should be. Missing. How could he be missing?

The only other fact they knew for sure was that Carlton had not kicked his own jacket out of view; the shoe print came from a size eight, and Carlton wore twelve.

The discovery had been by a groundskeeper making early rounds to the property. He pulled the jacket out and opened it carefully, looking for identification. Once he found the badge, he reported it to the receptionist manning the front desk—and police were called to take a look. His gardening gloves had prevented him from leaving fingerprints—and he had already been checked out and cleared of suspect behavior.

Which left them at square one, or more accurately, a single line drawn that might eventually resemble square one.

While it wasn't unusual for a detective or officer to be out all night, away from the station, while on duty, it was against protocol to miss regular check-ins—and Lassiter did not break protocol.

The Head Detective had left yesterday afternoon on his lunch, some of which he'd intended to spend at Gus's tap dance class. But he had not come back.

Nor had he made it into the building.

Karen found it mystifying and unsettling—given his known history, Shawn Spencer was more likely to run, or vanish into thin air. But not her Head Detective.

Calls to his phones went to voice mail, and his GPS was off, or was in a place where there was no signal. The area hospitals were checked, including asking for John Does matching his description, but nothing had come of it. None of the possibilities was appealing. Karen roused Detective O'Hara out of a patchy sleep at seven am to break the news and ask questions. Do you know where your partner is?

Juliet met Vick and a few officers outside of Lassiter's apartment thirty minutes later where they performed an unauthorized search of Lassiter's apartment after Lassiter failed to open the door. They found nothing of consequence, nothing to suggest any recent enemies had it out for Lassiter, though it could be hard to tell since Lassiter seemed to update his wall of mugshots regularly. The last criminal who had made a few attempts on his life was locked up in maximum security. Of course, they would have to pull all the files of the recently released felons; Lassiter's list of enemies was long.

It was difficult to make a case that the property on which the dance studio sat was a crime scene. A perimeter had been set and expanded after Vick had been notified whose badge it was that had been found; instructors, staff, patrons, maintenance, groundskeepers and cleaning people were still being interviewed; businesses in the area also checked; and a call for witnesses from the day before around the estimated time of noon to three was made. They had to wait on warrants to obtain existing security footage, and wait on witnesses who might come forward. It was still too early to tell what this was, one way or another, but Vick felt better to be safe rather than sorry—if she was wrong she would be the first to admit it, but she didn't want to lose ground in the first forty-eight hours.

It wouldn't be long before Shawn and Gus were clued in—if not through the dance studio then through Vick herself. A missing persons case like this was right up their alley, and Vick estimated the department would need all the help it could get.

Juliet had told herself, just to keep her worries at bay, that there was a reasonable explanation and it wouldn't do her any favors to jump to conclusions. But the only thing she could come up with was that Carlton had picked up a woman—or visa versa—and they had gone to her place or a hotel in her car. She quickly dismissed this. It was too unlikely, because her partner often lacked charm when it came to romance, and because he had been at the dance studio in the moments before he blipped off the radar.

It was terrifying to know so little, Juliet thought, to know nothing.


	4. Chapter 3: A Stranger In My Place

Disclaimer:  All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own Staples.

Author's Note: Hope you're still out there! Thanks for your patience. :) Definitely envy all those who can post updates at more regular intervals, but I'll still do my best. Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing!

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated! Enjoy!

_Leu_ is Romania's currency, _Zloty_ is Poland's currency.

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**Chapter Three:** **I'm Already Going, I'm Already Gone, There's A Stranger In My Place**

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X X X

They'd only toured a quarter of the festival when Shawn's cell rang, only a quarter mostly because Gus had been hung up on getting something to eat after only five minutes, and it had been difficult to walk too fast with the amount of food they accumulated. It was only a little after nine in the morning, but Shawn and Gus took their Cinnamon Festivals very seriously; these were not the kind of events one could waltz to after noon. Gus had even marked the Ventura festival on the Psych calendar a week and a half ago when he'd seen the ad in the paper.

"This better be good," Gus grumped. "Damn good. I took the whole day off for this!"

"Eat your pie," Shawn mumbled, distracted, both by what he was hearing and by a street performer spinning a plate on his forehead. A group of face-painted children gathered around him oohed and ahed, and Shawn felt like doing the same, but Vick's sharp voice made him focus on the more important subject—though as his eyes continued to stray to that spinning dinnerware.

"It's not official, _yet_," Vick edged, "but I want to officially hire you anyway, because I feel we are in need of your keen eye."

_Ka-ching!_ Shawn grinned. They were getting hired for a case that wasn't even an official case yet! Knowledge of an upcoming payday might appease Gus, though it was a shame to ruin a morning at a perfectly good Cinnamon Festival. "What's not official, Chief?" Shawn inquired, leaning forward to hold up his fist. To Gus he mouthed, _We've got a case!_

Gus, with a large mouthful of apple cinnamon pie, glared disdainfully at Shawn's fist. Taking his time to savor and swallow, he mouthed back, _Really?_ Reluctantly, he bumped Shawn's fist. A paying case was a paying case.

Vick sighed, a strained sound. "It's _not_ official that Detective Lassiter is missing, but given the facts that his car was found this morning locked up behind Mr. Guster's tap dance studio, and that Lassiter's badge and suit jacket were found under a shrub leading to the front doors, I am insisting we proceed with this investigation _immediately_." She took a deep breath and added, "If it turns out to be nothing, a misunderstanding, I will take full responsibility—and you'll be paid, no matter what. I've already cleared it with your father."

The grin had faded from Shawn's face as he listened, his senses shifting, hyperaware without consciously thinking about them, as he looked into the past that was yesterday, trying to recall if he'd seen anything that might have caught his attention—or his sleeping attention—when he picked Gus up. At first glance, there was nothing of note.

"Mr. Spencer?" Vick barked. "Are you still with me?"

Shawn blinked. "Yes, Chief!" He started to tell her that he was "getting something"—which might only be a cover for stalling—when she cut him off.

"How fast can you get to the dance studio?"

Shawn guesstimated, "Give or take forty-five minutes."

"Make it twenty," Vick countered. "Detective O'Hara and I will be waiting for you there."

Relief, unseen and unmerited, shot across Shawn's chest. "Split the difference," Shawn muttered, knowing they wouldn't really be able to do twenty minutes unless they did 120 on the 101. "We'll be there." He ended the call. Jules would be waiting. It was something good to look forward to.

"Shawn, what's the matter?" Gus prodded, noticing the change in Shawn's mood. "It's not a . . . another serial killer case, is it?"

Shawn gave a lopsided smile. "Gus, don't be the extra in _Saw 8 _whogets his face eaten off before the movie starts. No, it's not a murder case. But I'm now sensing Lassie had a pretty good reason for not showing up yesterday."

Gus slapped Shawn's hand down before it reached his temple, rolling his eyes. "Elaborate." He dropped the rest of his pie in the trash, regrettably having lost his appetite.

"Lassie's missing. We should stop at Staples on the way back to Santa Barbara and make missing Lassie flyers—"

"What do you mean, missing?" Gus demanded.

"As in, no one knows where he is," Shawn replied slowly, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I know what missing _means_—" Gus grumbled, but stopped, furrowing his brow. "Wait, _no one knows_ where he is? No one? Not even Juliet?"

"Apparently not. Vick is pretty serious about getting us down there." As they started walking towards the exit, Shawn filled Gus in on what Vick had said. "But this is good news, Gus! Lassie didn't flake out on you. He just . . . vanished into thick air."

"Thin air," Gus corrected, "and you have _not_ heard it both ways." He paused. "If there's no body, doesn't that mean there's no crime?"

"Dude, you're morbid." Shawn wondered at the irony of Gus's "no body, no crime" statement—he had first heard Lassiter say it when a corpse had been misplaced during Shawn and Gus's Thirteenth Year High School Reunion. It probably couldn't be applied to a missing person's case, right? He mused that, as long as he or Gus refrained from saying the phrase aloud in police presence, he would get his opportunity to hug Jules, unless she hugged him first.

"You started it!" Gus retorted.

"It's not a murder," Shawn repeated, causing them both to unwillingly consider Lassiter dead for a beat. "Lassie's only . . . been abducted by aliens. Aliens who have an appreciation for bad amateur tap dancing. So, you're safe, buddy."

Gus raised an eyebrow. Was that really a compliment from Shawn regarding his tap dancing mad skills? Watered down and off-handed, Gus decided he would take it.

X X X

Carlton pressed his head against the hard wall, slowing his breathing to slow his pulse. Maintaining that level of angry incredulity had been more draining than he'd realized, and besides that, he would need be calmer so he could contemplate the best ways to get himself out of this. It killed him not to move, to pretend to relax, especially when his skin was humming for action.

He bit his tongue to stay silent, to not argue with or respond to his captor for as long as he could hold out, and focused on his heart, loud and jerky. Carlton wasn't sure what to do—he'd almost yelled himself hoarse already only to have "proof of identity" thrown back in his face, just because some stupid paper said.

Because someone, unfamiliar with the local paper, believed it. Fixing his eyes on a point above the man's head, Lassiter considered what that might mean. An out-of-towner, a resident of another state, a foreigner.

Maybe this last one; both his clothes and hair were subtly un-American, even his formal manner and the air with which he held himself—with a ruthless confidence—could make him Eastern European; Carlton knew the type. He was caucasian, with dark hair and eyes, clean shaven and clean looking in general. He didn't look—at first glance, certainly not—to be of a criminal element, but, Carlton realized with creeping dread, this couldn't be the first time he'd orchestrated someone's disappearance.

Carlton was conscious of the fact he had not said his own name aloud, though he had started to, once. He wondered what kind of game he was playing at—was it a matter of self-protection or something else? Would it do him any good if he revealed his true identity, as a police officer? Kidnapping a police officer meant the death penalty would already be on the table—and so far, the man had yet to show any remorse. As yet, the man hadn't even stated what he'd done was a crime; it was only an unorthodox _business meeting_.

For his part, the man also remained quiet, as if respectfully waiting. Carlton could practically feel the man's gaze trained on his face, but there wasn't a thing he could do about it to make him stop. Unless . . . Carlton coughed, moved his tongue around his dry mouth, and demanded water. It came out in a croak. At least he was telling the truth when he asked for it; he could die of thirst.

"You will not die of thirst," the man responded calmly, his voice flat. He did not move.

"You're kidding me?" Lassiter retorted, ignoring the more subtle threat. "You're not to going give me water? Not after drugging me? You want me to lose my voice, is that it? So I can't tell you whatever it is you want to freaking know?" He heard every sentence twist as a question, heard his own sound whiny but unafraid, sound like a petulant child.

"You said you want my help to find something, isn't that what you said?" Lassiter continued.

"Finding someone," the man corrected quietly, giving Lassiter momentarily pause. It was the first bit of useful information; he could kick himself for not turning to interrogation sooner.

"Something, someone, why should I care?" Lassiter shot back. "I'm thirsty!"

The man's eyes had changed, they were harder, darker, dotted with impatience or anger. Lassiter noted the small victory with reserve; so, the man was capable of showing emotion. What could be more dangerous was what he might do with it.

X X X

Emil stared at Mr. Spencer, not certain why Mr. Spencer was determined to test him. As it was the same with the past, he found no pleasure in this process, wishing simply to have answers given as soon as he asked questions; still, he did what he had to do out of basic necessity, survival. It could be the wrong decision to give into Mr. Spencer's demands, especially so soon; would he talk after water, or not until after food? Not until he took a rest?

Perhaps the personal stake Emil had in the outcome made him soft. He relented, on one condition. As he stood and turned to leave the room, Emil felt his pocket for the compact switchblade he had acquired, just in case.

X X X

Lassiter almost couldn't believe his captor left the small room; he looked about wildly for anything that might help him, grateful the laser of eyes had gone. He wouldn't have much time.

His head was swimming; it was unnerving how much he had sounded like Spencer, whining like a baby, yet . . . it had been only an instinct, to push his captor and find out how much leeway there might be.

Drawing his knees up to his hands, Carlton quickly checked his ankle holster and cursed. As he suspected, it was empty. Swallowing heavily, he strained his long fingers to touch his belt, hoping he could somehow reach his cell phone, which had been clipped to it in anticipation of the tap class, and froze. His belt was missing.

_Stop wasting time!_ he chided himself. _So what if you're out gunned and you're method of communication has been cut off, you can still get out of this._

Carlton again took stock of what was—and wasn't—in the room. It was hard, due to lack of sufficient light, but it didn't seem to matter—the room was empty, and though there could be more than mass decay hidden in shadowy corners, he didn't hold out hope. Nothing, not a single rusty nail or brick, nothing to use as a key or a weapon. Just cold concrete, like a cell. Or a basement storage area. A basement where? In a house? In a business?

He briefly considered and then discarded the idea of yelling for assistance; listening to the frantic silence now told him that he could pick out nothing but the distant sound of water dripping over his own breathing and the thumping of his heart.

And footsteps. His captor was coming back.

Muffled echoes of sound reached him, but Carlton was still startled when the man appeared in the open doorway, approaching Lassiter with what looked like a small glass jar of yellowish water. Lassiter flinched; he had expected a bottle of water, one with an unbroken seal. Before he could protest, the man, standing above him, bent down and tipped the lip of the jar against his mouth. Lassiter sputtered, jerking his head back. It bounced against the wall and disoriented him for a few seconds or so, seconds in which his captor waited, as if deciding not to drown him while he was unaware.

"Mr. Spencer, you were thirsty," the man said, with the tiniest hint of a snarl. He made a vague gesture to Lassiter's bonds. "You cannot drink for yourself."

Lassiter squinted and tried to will the jarring the back of his head had taken away. He heard himself growl lowly, "Then take them off."

The man sighed through his nose. He bent his knees and carefully set the jar next to Lassiter's right thigh, within reach of his hand. He rose to level he had been at when trying to get Lassiter to take a sip, retrieved a blade from his pocket and opened it with a click. He pushed it against the left side of Lassiter's throat.

Carlton froze the second the blade touched his skin. He felt the deliberate pressure of it, but more the flat of the blade than its sharp edges. His body tensed, he waited for his captor to speak or act. In this position he could do nothing to defend himself other than attempt to jerk his body away, which would likely result in his neck getting cut.

"I will not have to hurt you, will I, Mr. Spencer?" his captor asked, his mouth turned towards Lassiter's ear. He spoke calmly, as if the nature of his question was only shrewd curiosity.

"What?" Carlton rasped in the silence that followed. He willed himself to stay still, in spite of realizing he'd clenched his fists in reaction to the threat.

"Because I would rather not hurt you," the man continued. "It is not in my nature to cause pain. But I am capable of doing so."

Carlton listened but did not believe his captor would not like to hurt him—or that hurting people went against his nature. "You—you were in prison," Carlton said, suddenly making the connection. "I believe you're capable," he added with gritted teeth, hating to dole out a compliment of sorts but wanting the man to retreat back to the far wall, away from him.

"Yes," the man answered, though it wasn't clear which statement he was agreeing to. He withdrew the blade and picked up the jar again. Lassiter released a breath. His head still throbbed, but he remained immobile, his muscles tensed, when the man put the jar to his lips. Instead, he drank, the sound of his gulps and swallows loud to his own ears. The man said nothing.

When the water was gone—not nearly enough had been given, even though it had tasted dirty and stale—the man took the glass and went back to his wall, taking a seat on the floor across from Lassiter.

Lassiter cleared his throat, which was still dry, but he didn't dare ask for more water, not now. "Is that . . ." He paused, closing his eyes for a second, unwilling to go on. He thought psychics in general were con men (and con women), and wanted nothing to do with them. But ever since the day the Chief hired self-claimed "psychic" Shawn Spencer to consult with the department, he had been stuck dealing it. Gritting his teeth, he ground out, "Is that why you didn't go to _my_ office and hire _my_ agency? Because you're an ex-con?"

A slow smile made its way over the man's features, making him look sallow and tainted. "You are the psychic and yet you ask me that question nonetheless. Had I lived an honest life then, and only then, would I have been invited to go inside."

"But your . . . _leu_"—he took a shot at guessing the man's country of origin—"is as good as anyone else's. Or is it _zloty_?"

His captor's eyes darkened. "You and your business partner are often hired by the police, is that not correct?"

Lassiter nodded, but didn't pick up on it right away. "So what?"

The man pursed his lips and leaned forward. "Why you cannot see it on me, or pull it from one of the mouths of the many victims who did not survive, I do not know. Perhaps you are not the right psychic, the one whose legends traveled to the prison in Moscow where I did spent the last decade."

Lassiter listened to the man's voice, its edge of disappointment, but also sadness. He was disquieted, but also irrationally jealous. An international ex-con, a murderer, had heard of Spencer in _Moscow, while in prison_.

Understanding reached him; he blamed the drugs and the recent thump on his head for the slowness of its arrival—a criminal is never an honest man, and any other psychic (terminology that caused Carlton to roll his eyes to himself) might have turned him in immediately—but likely not Spencer. Spencer had a serious problem with what was black and what was white and often gave the accused the benefit of the doubt, a luxury Lassiter rarely could. He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.

The irony being that if this man had gone to Spencer and Guster for help, they might have done everything imaginable to solve his problems (while possibly creating new ones), regardless of his captor's once-and-again criminal status. But his captor didn't know that—which was peculiar, and made Carlton wonder just how much he_ did know_ about Spencer—and figured he was only as desperate as his next criminal act.

Feeling sick inside, Lassiter replied, "If you know what you think you know about me, you could have hired—"

"Do not insult me," his captor spat with distaste. "It is much too late for the two of us to carry out a simple business transaction." His nostrils flared. "I did not come all this way only to wait longer for news—no more years, months, or weeks. This way ensures I have your full attention." He released a heavy breath and pressed himself against his wall, crossing his arms. "Now, Mr. Spencer, I have given you what you asked. But have I wasted my time? Will you not be able to help me?"

Carlton forced himself to say it, forced himself not be shaky when he said it. "I'm—you didn't waste your time. I am. I am the right psychic." He felt cold on the inside, but with great effort continued with the malarky. "I can help you find . . ." He racked his brain for the appropriate conclusion, wondering with sudden annoyance just how Spencer seemed to know things about people he'd just met. Instead, he went over what he'd learned through the man's admissions, and decided on one word, hoping it would be right enough. ". . . Find her."


	5. Chapter 4: This One I Will Keep

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to Nelly Furtado, Nelly, or Marky Mark's song "Good Vibrations".

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for the support, encouragement, feedback, follows and favoriting. Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Happy reading. :)

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**Chapter Four: You Said I Should Let It Go, But This One I Will Keep**

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The words almost hurt to come out of his mouth, as alien and nonsensical as they were; it was all he could do not to grit his teeth and scowl. _Him_, a _psychic_. Worse—_Shawn Spencer_, psychic. _Him, as Shawn Spencer, psychic._ Carlton couldn't keep his lip from curling upward slightly, and turned his head to hide it from his captor. He found it irritating to not know the man's name, to in fact know so little.

Was it so easy just to give in? Carlton felt dread pressing on his ribs, felt a faint sense of mortification, irrational but there nonetheless, real as tiny beats of fear. He waited in silence for the man to respond, to show any flicker of acknowledgement, or to offer the slightest praise. Not that he wanted it, the praise, but what he wanted less was the knife against his neck again, or worse, the syringe.

Carlton kept his face as impassive as the man's, again meeting his unbreakable gaze, and waited.

He heard the echo of his own words in his head, on a feverish loop, heard the feigned confidence in his voice as he lied to his captor. _"I am the right psychic." _

Were there other reasons for his lie, or was it all for basic survival? And what had he just done with this admission—condemned himself? Saved himself? Right now, it was impossible to tell.

It merited repeating that Carlton didn't even believe in psychics—they were all fakes, liars, con artists—but as much as he was loathe to almost admit, there was something eerie about the way Shawn Spencer worked. How he knew what he knew and how he could apply it, in his own half-assed ways, to solve cases. But then again, he seemed privy to understanding the secrets of human connection, forging lasting bonds and making friends effortlessly, notions that were as alien to Carlton as "being psychic".

Carlton moved his tongue around his mouth, tensing his jaw against a rising new fear. What if he couldn't do it, despite already admitting he would help?

X X X

"You're late," Vick scolded as soon as Shawn and Gus exited the car and made their way towards the studio's front doors.

Shawn shrugged. "Don't blame me. Gus was driving."

Gus's jaw dropped and he shot Shawn an incredulous look. "What do you expect? We were in Ventura. I thought we made excellent time."

Vick raised an eyebrow. "Did you speed?"

"I—I thought it was an emergency," Gus stammered, catching Shawn shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. "Shawn! You told me—" He threw up his hands in Shawn's direction. "Well, isn't it?"

"Keep your voice down, Gus, some people have clearly not had their sixth cup of morning coffee."

Gus made an uncomfortable face and suddenly excused himself, hurrying towards the dance studio's doors.

"Gus did have his six cups," Shawn explained with a smirk.

Juliet waved him over. "Why were you guys in Ventura?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"For the Cinnamon Festival. It was advertised to be _epic_, Jules," he added when she gave him a skeptical glance. Shawn sighed. "Now we'll never know."

"Right, it's too bad my partner had to disappear and ruin your whole day," Juliet replied sarcastically.

Shawn nodded. "It is." He paused. "Did Lassie do it on purpose? Because, knowing him, he might—" He stopped teasing when he caught a pained look on her face. There was more than just that, he noticed—she hadn't slept well and the smallest traces of worry had collected at the corners of her eyes. "You called him several times and he never answered," he told her.

Juliet shook her head, but looked slightly relieved, as if she could focus now that Shawn was here and taking this seriously—as serious as he could, that was. "Not once. And he never came back"—she blew out a breath—"but the Chief told you that. It just . . . this isn't like him."

She had turned her head and lowered her voice, as if Lassiter was close by and might be listening to her. So as to not reveal her true fear, sitting thinly underneath her words.

"No, it's not," Shawn agreed, "but he's probably okay, Jules."

"Right," Juliet murmured, still looking away from him. "It's a big misunderstanding, like the Chief said. Yet . . . yet, she's out here with me, looking for clues."

Shawn made a noncommittal sound, agreeing with her doublespeak. He half expected to see Lassiter appear around a corner with a sour face, already scolding them from a distance for wasting their time. All he could hear was the distant traffic on the road and footsteps of the police officers on scene, and the occasional car door slam. No one within range was speaking, yet here they were, as if needing to whisper conspiratorially.

"Show me where his badge was found," Shawn said, offering the distraction of their focus. Juliet led him to the shrubs, crouching down and pointing with a gloved finger.

"His jacket was here, in a ball, and his badge was within, in a pocket." While she was looking at the ground, Shawn moved his gaze to the sidewalk which led to and from the parking lots. He looked straight back, watching the heat shimmer on the still nearly empty pavement. Police tape to the left of the parking lot caught his eye, curving further left and out of sight.

"What are you thinking, Shawn?" Juliet asked, still crouching, placing a hand on her forehead to shield her eyes from the new morning sunlight.

Shawn pivoted 180, backing up a few paces, enough so he was a few feet away from the shrubs. He started walking towards them with exaggerated strides on the right side of the path, trying to compensate for Lassiter's longer legs. "He was here, coming up the sidewalk," Shawn said, touching his temple. Shawn walked past the shrubs and looked up at a sudden glint which caught his eye—a security camera, mounted on a post. "He was here, but he wasn't alone."

Juliet stood up and looked at the camera with him. The lens was angled toward the dance studio's doors, and the short sidewalk leading towards the entrance. Shawn noted the cut off point; if this was the only camera here, then it was just shy of the path Lassiter—and the intruder—would have been on. He caught her shaking her head. "There's nothing, no footage."

"Nothing? No one else walking on camera or off, not even the back of someone's head?"

She shook her head again, slowly. "The security guard manning the video room identified everyone from yesterday who appeared on camera as a patron, a member of staff or a maintenance worker. There were no solicitors, new members, or guests—no one who shouldn't be here."

"But no Lassie either," Shawn replied.

Juliet pursed her lips. "No." She looked over her shoulder, in the direction of curving police tape, wondered aloud, "He may not have even made it out of his car. We might be looking for him in the wrong place."

"But, was there any evidence of a struggle around his car?" Shawn asked. The back of his neck was prickling; even just his remote theory of a stranger being in Lassiter's line of sight gave him a boost that he was probably right. Or at least on the right track.

"Well, no," Juliet admitted, then added, "and he would have put up a fight."

Shawn turned back to look at the shrubs. If Lassiter's jacket was balled up with a dusty footprint on it, Shawn figured Lassie wouldn't have put it there himself. "Why would Lassie take off his jacket?" he mused aloud. "He doesn't take it off when it's 110 degrees—yesterday couldn't have been more than 90."

"Actually, 92, to be accurate," Gus said as he walked up to them.

"Gus, don't be every other lying weatherman."

"I'm not lying, that was temperature they put on record yesterday," Gus countered.

Shawn opened his mouth to respond when Juliet snapped, "Guys!"

They both looked at her and she stared back, all traces of yesterday's sweetness erased. Her brief outburst had earned her an eyebrow raise from Vick, but Juliet didn't catch her eye. "Shawn, you were saying?"—when he opened his mouth again she warned—"and _don't_ get back to talking about the weather."

He heard it, in her tone, the urgency, as if they had reached zero hour, with no wiggle room, no time at all left. Clearing his throat and shooting an apologetic glance at Gus, Shawn continued, "Right, so it couldn't have been that it was too hot for Lassie. Would he take it off to fight—or to shoot someone?" Shawn thought of the many times he'd seen Lassiter threaten to shoot, shoot at or actually shoot someone, each time with his jacket on.

"No way, his jacket's practically a second skin," Gus commented. "Though, didn't he take it off that one time, before he shot Chavez?"

Shawn sighed loudly and Juliet threw up her hands. "Gus, you _know_ Lassie didn't shoot Chavez! We helped prove it! It was Drimmer, remember? He pistol-whipped me!"

Gus shook his head. "I'm still not sure that Lassiter didn't do it." When he caught Juliet glaring at him murderously, he looked appropriately shamed. He added, as if make amends, "Would Lassiter do that, take his jacket off to fight someone? I mean, Lassiter has a gun—and even if he lost it for some reason and couldn't get it back, would he waste time during a brawl to shed clothing?"

The anger dropped from Juliet's face, leaving its features sad, especially deep in her eyes. "No, that wouldn't make sense."

"So that leaves only one possibility," Shawn offered quietly. "Someone yanked it off him . . . for what?" He was thinking aloud again, trying to imagine Lassiter allowing an attacker to get the best of him—if he'd had a choice. Was there a fight, could blood have been spilled? Not a gun battle; exchanging fire would have been too noisy in this subdued place, even at its busiest hour. Shawn looked at the shrubs and sidewalk. He could see no blood, no evidence of a brawl; there were hardly any scuffs, but he crouched down to take a look anyway.

This was where it happened, what ever it was that had happened.

Shawn squinted at the pavement, trying to work on a plausible scenario: Lassie walked towards the studio's doors as someone else walked toward him, grabbed him, pulled off his jacket and pushed it off the sidewalk and out of the way. But why do that? Could this someone have been trying to keep Lassie from being identified?

Identified, if his body was ever found.

Shawn continued to stare at the ground, not wanting to stand up and share the wild thoughts that threatened to break through his lips. Touching his hand to his head, he murmured, "This is where it happened."

"Where what happened?" Juliet demanded, wanting for just a moment to be inside Shawn's head, to know what he seemed to know.

"Where Lassie disappeared." He stood up fast, lightheaded by the weight of his darker thoughts. Dropping his arm, he pointed down. "Did CSU already dust for footprints or take impressions of this area here, Jules? I suspect a crazy dance—"

Juliet blew out an exasperated breath. "It's a highly traveled sidewalk, Shawn. Do you know how unlikely there is to be trace evidence, let alone shoe prints of any kind, dancers or otherwise?"

She took a few steps away from, but was not out of earshot, so Shawn shot Gus what he hoped was a meaningful look.

"Oh, do you need to use the Little Boy's Room now, Shawn?" Gus asked. "Your five pineapple smoothies finally caught up to you?"

Shawn frowned, starting to deny it, but shifted his weight. He thought of dragging Gus with him, but didn't think he could get away with it, since most guys didn't make a habit of going to the bathroom in groups.

"Shawn, Gus!" Juliet called, waving them ahead. "The Chief wants you to see his car."

"I've already seen it," Shawn muttered. "It's not that impressive."

"For the case," Gus shot back, raising his eyebrows. "You know, why we're _here_ and _not_ at the Cinnamon Festival."

"I know that! You go. Tell her I'll catch up."

"Hurry it up, Shawn. She's on the warpath."

"Oh, like _you_ hurried?" Shawn snickered.

"For your information, I finished my business in a flash and got to chatting with Monique—"

"Gentlemen, _today_!" Vick yelled back, her eyebrows pinched together.

Shawn gave Gus a shove in their direction. "I'll be right there."

As soon as Gus's back was turned, Shawn shot a quick look at the camera on the post, keeping it in sight as he headed for the doors. He barely quelled the urge to wave as he was recorded, walking in.

X X X

In spite of what Emil had said to his guest in his hasty display of anger about no longer wanting to wait, he still took the time to listen to Mr. Spencer's breathing and weigh the silence between them. Mr. Spencer seemed content, in spite of his predicament, to not produce any easy answers, to not spill out any loose chatter from any of the dead wishing to make communications with him. He seemed to be unlike any other person he'd encountered who claimed to have connections to spirit worlds, from the most fraudulent to the most genuine. Mr. Spencer was most unwilling to talk.

Yet, Emil knew he had not been wrong—he knew exactly who Mr. Spencer was and just what he was capable of accomplishing—for he had come here with intentions that would soon—sooner or later—be fulfilled.

Mr. Spencer had just confirmed he would be of aid, that he could see, or feel, through what may be divine knowledge, the existence of her. Of his Anja. His wife, his love, his loss.

A smile crept across his features, nearly indiscernible in this dark. There could be little harm in telling Mr. Spencer his name, or the name of his beloved, as he had neglected to do, making assumptions that the psychic would already have their names on his tongue. But then, Emil felt he may have underestimated his friend; they seemed to match each other in silence, in patience, as if they were both men used to waiting for long periods, gaining little for it, to being disappointed and moving forward in spite of being hurt.

"I ask you to forgive my poor manners, Mr. Spencer. I know your name yet you appear to not know mine."

Mr. Spencer stared back, his mouth in a tight line. Emil's smile creased his forehead; he found himself strangely amused with this man who seemed as unyielding as himself, but could not be.

X X X

Another glint caught Shawn's eye as he rounded the corner heading towards Lassiter's car, still surrounded by several police officers, including Vick and Juliet, who were impatient enough to wave to him after he cleared the police tape. He paused, thinking anything reflective lying in the sun might catch his eye—a bottle cap, a shard of glass, the shiny inside of a candy bar wrapper. But this, it looked sharp like metal, causing Shawn to turn in its direction.

It wasn't hidden at all, though a few scattered parked cars nearby, one parked a single spot over, could have easily made its existence harder to see, if not for his trained eye. It was too soon for Shawn to picture a likely scenario that left it lying here, not more than thirty feet from where Lassiter's car was parked. The black belt was curved like a snake, lying on its side, sunning itself. The belt buckle itself, polished silver, was the reason for Shawn's approach. On the belt was a clipped black holder for a cell phone. Shawn squatted down for a closer look and saw the holder was empty. He recalled what Jules said, how all her calls to Lassie went to voice mail and how the GPS in Lassie's phone was off.

Shawn wondered if he should make a fuss, have a psychic vision right here and now over this pretty common looking belt and this empty cell phone case. It could be absolutely nothing, a waste of time, not even worth mentioning.

Shawn stood up and rolled his shoulders. _Why not?_ Pressing both hands to his head, Shawn called out, "Whoa! Whoa, Nelly! Nelly Furtado, not the rapper Nelly. I'm getting some strong psychic vibrations! Right. Over. Here!" His voice carried across the parking lot, to Gus first, who paused.

"Right. Over. Here!" Shawn yelled again, pointing downward at the belt, which was probably too hard to see from their angle. He made an exaggerated "Come here!" gesture with his head, directed solely at Gus.

Gus rolled his eyes and sighed. "Excuse me," Shawn saw him mouth to Juliet as he walked away, frowning at Shawn as he approached. "What?" he demanded when he got close enough.

"Dude!" Shawn exclaimed. "I found a belt!"

Gus wrinkled his nose and looked down, not exactly the reaction Shawn was hoping for. "So what?"

"So, what do you think?"

"What do I think about this belt, or about the smell of gunpowder on it?"

"I—huh?" Shawn squinted down at it and then at Gus. "It it has a smell?"

"Yeah, gunpowder and . . ." After a few seconds, Gus shook his head. "Something else so faint it's hard to make out."

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "Really? You, the Super Sniffer, _you_ can't even—"

Gus held up a hand. "Don't start with me. I'm already disappointed enough in myself."

Shawn chuckled. "Okay, okay, but it's something, right? It's enough to get Vick and Jules over here?"

"Is that what this is about? You just want extra attention? Is Lassiter's car getting too much?"

"Gus, this could be a valuable piece of evidence. Don't look at me like that."

"It's a belt."

"Gus, if you hadn't noticed, there's not that much to go on here. In spite of my exceptional attention to detail, great skills of deduction that elude even the best trained detectives, and always perfectly gelled hair, it's not like I can always pull solutions out of thick—"

"_Thin_," Gus corrected again.

"—air," Shawn continued, rolling his eyes. "Thick _and_ thin air."

"Shawn, the phrase you're thinking of is 'Through thick and thin'. Like what I do with you even though you know so little about the English language."

"I've heard it both ways." He ignored Gus rolling his eyes. "My point is, Gus, that I need your help. You may be 40 percent of the reason why we're able to solve crimes as quickly as we do."

Gus made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. "I think it's 60/40, with me in the lead. If you spent less time making wild assumptions, like assuming this belt is significant, we'd probably end up on less wild goose chases." He gestured to pavement, "Someone in hurry leaving the studio could have dropped this, or it could have fallen out of a bag. Or heck, it could have been purposely discarded. It could be no big deal."

"But it could be a big deal, and assuming it's not could send us on another wild goose chase," Shawn countered.

"Just forget about it and let's go to the car. Chief Vick's giving us the evil eye, well, you, specifically."

Shawn shook his head. "That car's not going anywhere. This is only going to take a few minutes." Again, Shawn made noise, this time adding spastic swaying motions. It had been a while since he got this physical over a psychic vision, but he didn't think anyone by Lassiter's car would budge otherwise. "Strong vibrations! Right down here!" he called, waving his arms over the belt. "Good vibrations, it's such a good vibration . . ."

"Shawn, you better stop now before you break out into song," Gus warned, watching Juliet stomping over to them. "I don't think Juliet wants to hear your rendition of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch's 'Good Vibrations' right now."

"You're right. Maybe in five minutes?"

Gus shook his head, seeing Juliet's mouth form a curse. "Maybe not."


	6. Chapter 5: The Devil That You Know

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Thank you for the continued support, encouragement, follows and favorites and reviews! Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and highly appreciated! :) Enjoy!

Timeline of "the first 48 hours" is slightly off, trying to account for the time when Lassiter's things and car were found, rather than the exact moment Lassiter vanished (this will be addressed in upcoming chapters).

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**Chapter Five: The Devil That You Know Is Better Than The One You Don't**

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X X X

Thirty hours of their critical 48-hours window had passed them, and Juliet found that they had learned very little—and had not acquired any real leads—even after heavily perusing Lassiter's huge stack of cases where criminals had threatened him with physical harm. Already she was making tentative plans to visit Mr. Salamatchia in prison, so desperate was she to wrap her head around this whole thing. He wouldn't tell her a thing, even if he knew, but she might still try, if it came down to it.

She had been at this for hours, so long that the sides of her head ached and her eyes burned, the black type blurring on the page. So long that when she felt someone touch her shoulder, she tensed, having forgotten she was not in this alone.

"Jules," Shawn's tired voice reached her. "You ready for another coffee break?"

Juliet looked up from the open file she had yet to put either in the "flagged" pile or the "return to file cabinet" pile. Shawn leaned over her desk, his face almost close enough to hers to make her jump. He already had bags under his eyes, but he looked at her with a faint smile on his lips.

She thought about yesterday, what she could separate from her raw emotions and what she deemed as sole reactions, and reflected on how she hadn't been very nice, as if that female detective had been a closer version of her missing partner than her actual self. Making demands of "Spencer", insulting his abilities for pointing out details everyone else had missed. It made her feel a little ashamed, especially since Shawn and Gus had volunteered to help her look through these many, many files.

This time, unlike the last time they had had to do this, they were able to remain in the station since Carlton was not there, looking over their shoulders and calling out names. Commanding that they hold up the files so he could see from his limited vantage point around the officers guarding his door.

Juliet laid her hand over Shawn's, which was still resting on his shoulder. "Coffee sounds great." It was a lie, of course; she'd lost track of how many cups she'd had, but had resolved not to be out-coffeed by Chief Vick, who had once lived on coffee as a replacement for sleep following her daughter's birth.

Juliet stood up, stretched her stiff muscles, and followed Shawn to the coffee station, a trek they'd already made together several times that late night/early morning. "Where's Gus?" she asked as she went through the motions of pouring the coffee and adding cream.

"Power napping," Shawn said amusedly. "He told me that if I fell asleep he would draw on my face."

She raised her eyebrow, her realization lagging a few seconds behind. She looked at Shawn, whose lips were parted in a smile. "You _didn't_."

"I didn't—use permanent marker. At least, unless you guys have permanent markers lying around here."

In spite of herself, Juliet found herself with a goofy grin, picturing Gus's expression when he found out, already hearing his indignant, betrayed cry of "SHAWN!" Trying to stifle giggles, she change the subject, touching Shawn's arm. "Yesterday," she began, watching his eyes twinkle over his prank, "at the dance studio, I was—"

"Jules, I already know what you're going to say," Shawn interrupted. He watched her furrow her brow.

"You do?"

"I do." His eyes were still twinkling. "We psychics call it 'residual channeling'—you were picking up bits of energy to put you in that very Lassiterian attitude. Or you had a form of Seasonal Affective Disorder called 'Lassi-tude'. I actually think the technical name is 'LAD': "Lassiter Affective Disorder."

"Shawn." She rolled her eyes at his faux-serious joking tone.

"You can totally make it up to me," Shawn continued, pouring his own coffee into a mug without looking—or spilling a drop.

"What do I have to do?"

"I was thinking Fries _Quatro Queso Dos Fritos_. Two orders. Maybe on a date?"

"What's Gus going to say about that?"

"Gus has permanent marker on his face, Jules. I don't think he's going to care if you eat his fries." Shawn winked.

Any tension that had been lurking between them evaporated. Juliet was grateful; losing control of her emotions wasn't going to help anyone see the bigger picture, no matter what it was supposed to look like. She took a sip of coffee.

Shawn put his arm lightly across her shoulders as they headed back. He had never been irked at Juliet; of course not, but it tickled him that she'd agreed to eating the second most unhealthy fries he had yet to come across with just him. He supposed he'd have to wait; as much as he'd like to go with her as soon as the sun came up, Shawn figured her mind would be elsewhere, and not on the cheesy fried goodness.

X X X

"Emil Frey." A name entirely unfamiliar to Lassiter, even as he racked his mind for some mention of it, some link, any link, to this time and place.

"Her name . . . my beloved . . ." Emil Frey sat forward, his eyes taking on a hungry look even as his voice spoke her name with a hushed reverence. "Anja."

"Anja," Lassiter repeated in the same tone, holding Emil's eyes. He gave nothing away as he felt a cold jab to his ribs, merely a chill and not a physical blow, but enough of a reminder. He was working with practically nothing, and he had to create a whole history on two foreign names and scattered details Emil had already revealed about his past. He was going to have create an entire woman out of just a name—unless he could get Emil to talk about her.

Tightening his jaw, he did one of the things he professed he never did in public—willingly closed his eyes. Pretending to look into his mind or hear the voices, or whatever crap Spencer did, Lassiter began quietly, "She's . . . your wife. But you were never legally wed." Unbidden, an image of Victoria on their wedding day surfaced, her perfect dark hair pulled back from her face, accentuating her stunning cheekbones. He had been McNab's age when he'd met her and wooed her.

Carlton further tightened his jaw, causing a pain to start in the side of his head, but her image blinked out, and he was relieved. "You consider her your wife," he continued, "and you always will."

He was tempted to open his eyes and try to gauge a reaction from his captor—should Emil's seemingly steady blank features move to show emotion. But maybe he should try a few more phrases, nothing too daring, not yet.

Yet, the absurdity was getting to him; he wanted nothing more than to spit insults at Emil, to deny his "identity" again until he was blue in the face. _Why the hell am I doing this?_ He heard his jaw crack.

Their marriage had begun to fall apart during Lassiter's pursuit to become Santa Barbara's youngest Head Detective. Perhaps their foundation had not been good enough to build a lifetime upon. _Goddammit_. He hadn't meant to think of Victoria again, yet there she was, taunting him from some recess of his mind. Taking a breath through his nose, he measured his words, drawing them out quietly in the straightest of lines. "But you lost her. You lost each other. No matter how badly you didn't want it to happen, it happened."

"Yes, Mr. Spencer."

Carlton opened his eyes, noting pained undertones of Emil's three words. Emil was leaning forward, tense, his elbows on his knees, as if he were hanging on Lassiter's every word. The hungry glint was still in his eyes, picking up the dank room's minuscule light.

For the first time since discovering his arms were chained to his waist, Carlton felt ironic relief: like this, he was physically prevented from lifting his hands to his temples—as if the gesture, when Spencer did it, proved as some kind of contact between him and "visions". In fact, Carlton figured if he was compelled into doing it, he would crack. It was still on the tip of his tongue, his further confessions of who he was not.

Feeling foolish, he cleared his throat, and stared back at Emil. "Tell me a little bit about her."

Emil leaned back, his face slipping back into the shadows. "You are the one here to give to me the answers, Mr. Spencer." His voice was flat. "Or do you not know her?"

Annoyed, Lassiter nearly responded. Instead, he bit his tongue again, hard, and let some of the pain show. _Of course I don't know her, you simple-minded lunatic! You snatched the wrong man! _He made himself to take another breath through his nose. _What if not even the real Spencer "knew" this phantom woman, this woman who could be no more than a figment? _

"I can sense pain," Carlton breathed, closing his eyes again and trying to think fast. Could this woman Emil sought, real or imagined, be truly the love of his life or nothing more than a cold-hearted snake who had spurned him? He recalled Victoria's smile, her tiny goodbye smile, the night he finally signed the divorce papers, and wondered, could this Anja be both of those things? "I can feel her regret," he continued, and mock-flinched, as if she were really there, bending down next to his ear and warning him not to go on. "She hurt you, blindly. She—doesn't want me to say it." He hissed and turned his head, grimacing as if were in the throes of "psychic manipulation", glad he was not physically able to perform the stupid dances he'd seen Spencer do during such "episodes".

Emil sat forward, this time more slowly, his features cautious. He watched Mr. Spencer and contemplated him reaching across the great divide, accessing emotions he should not be privy to, when all Emil wanted to hear were things like the location of her current address, the conditions of their separation, the new name, if there was one, if she was, in fact, alive. But this, what this psychic was delving into, he did not want. He had spent ten years of his life diligently erasing the pain, divorcing himself from nearly all emotion.

So his voice was sharp when he spoke. "Then do not say it, Mr. Spencer."

Carlton froze, both literally and metaphorically. He considered not being divisive, but it seemed an impossible feat, since he really didn't know what would or wouldn't set his captor off. "It was her fault," he spat, turning back to Emil, opening his eyes again. Slowly, he relaxed his body, as if to prove he was no longer control by "outside forces". "At the core, you lost each other because she—" _Gave up? Wasn't strong enough? Didn't love him enough?_ Carlton almost wanted to laugh; wasn't it sort of sucky-funny that the dissolution of his marriage was giving him fuel to deal with a madman? At least for a few minutes?

He caught a glimpse of wild anger in Emil's eyes; his captor looked primed for violence, but so far he'd done nothing physically worse than drug him and hold a blade to his neck. "She lost faith," he finished quietly, holding Emil's gaze. "Is that why you don't want to talk about her, Emil? Because she disappointed you?"

Emil's name curled in Lassiter's mouth, but he forced his tone to be low and light, almost . . . _understanding_. He felt false, and stupid, but he waited for Emil's response. As the silence stretched, he worried but kept his face expressionless. The Chief could be right, after all; he was absolutely no good at undercover work—he was no good at being someone not himself.

"What is it?" Carlton snapped, yanking on his restraints, his fake light tone obliterated. "You don't want to say a word about her, a word about yourself, for reasons you refuse to give me. Did she betray you? Did you betray her?" He heard his voice raising and suddenly hoped his 'out of character' demeanor would provoke Emil—so he could get some real answers.

X X X

Emil was tempted to leave his captive to take a walk, not to clear his head but to keep himself from bruising Mr. Spencer's face. He had already felt his fist tightening next to him, felt the urge in his muscles to rise and lunge, almost like the animal he was deep down inside.

He thought of gagging Mr. Spencer, just until he could calm himself, but it seemed to go against the reason he'd bought Mr. Spencer here. There was a chance he had not thought this through, not all the way, for he had never thought such memories could be shaken loose, or that he might, via Mr. Spencer, be able to see through Anja's eyes.

Emil stood up, his body swaying until he threw himself into pacing the short length of the basement.

He felt Mr. Spencer's eyes on him, tracing his movements as he crossed from shadow to shadow. When he looked into his captive's eyes, they were a clear blue, shrewd and wise. This was the man whom he had been watching, who had the same walk as his speech, confident and unwavering.

Emil paused, looking over the man he had brought here and chained to the wall, and pondered what he could do to cause him fear, to hear him scream and beg for mercy. He wanted to erase the sarcasm and malice in Mr. Spencer's voice, even the doubt that he, Emil, was not in his right mind.

X X X

It was Lassiter's belt, without a doubt. His fingerprints were all over it, as well as on the plastic cell phone clip. There was also latex residue, trace amounts, on the buckle and one edge, which had been pinched. Presumably to pull it from its belt loops.

They had gone over every plausible—and utterly implausible—scenario, but much like the theories with the jacket, they came to a similar conclusion: the belt was removed from Lassiter by someone else. Unlike the jacket, it looked not to be hurriedly removed or hidden, but taken off consciously or as an after thought.

Juliet again sat in a chair in front of Chief Vick's desk, absently rubbing her forehead with the heel of her hand. The sun had come up and continued to shine; its mid-morning glare was hitting her right in the eyes. About an hour ago, she'd sent Shawn and Gus home to take a nap.

"None of it makes any sense," Karen admitted. "Violent criminals shoot first. But we found no casings; no shots were reported fired." It pained her to think of Lassiter lying bleeding or dead on his back after an altercation gone out of his favor, but they both had considered it.

"Shawn thinks he was taken. He thinks Carlton's belt was removed after he was loaded into the back of some vehicle." Juliet frowned. "But that doesn't make sense either. Why take Carlton?" _In broad daylight, in front of a public place? It sounded like a bold move_—and made her all the more uneasy.

Karen raised an eyebrow. "What could be that reason?" _Why not just kill him, outright?_ "What could be the gain? Revenge? Torture? A slow, painful death?"

Juliet shifted in her seat. She wasn't sure she could get on board with this; maybe the questions were easier to handle when her partner had just been labeled "missing". Or "misplaced", like an object, valuable and needed. She didn't like to consider murder or accidental death or abduction or any other decent reason to explain why he was not here—plausible or implausible.

She cleared her throat. "We collected all the files we flagged of Lassiter's cases. It was a small pile—but McNab insisted he wanted to help me," she explained at Vick's questioning eyebrow raise at "we"; Vick knew that Shawn and Gus had their limits and spent parts of the night in dead sleep while O'Hara continued to work. Obviously McNab had become as fidgety, though Karen recalled telling to go home hours before that.

"Anything?" Vick asked. "What about Shawn? Did he get any vibrations off the any of the names?"

Juliet shook her head. "It's hard for me to grasp, but no, nothing." She recalled the defeated look on McNab's face at the end of their search, the last calls made into the smallest morning hours. (Shawn and Gus had not been allowed to make calls but were ready, as soon as they'd gotten some sleep, to do the personal followups—"Ask the flimsy questions," as Shawn had put it, if that was all they had to go on.) McNab had been eager enough to want to go door to door too, if it would help. And she still hadn't given up on her secret prison visitation plans.

"How could he just vanish into thin air?" Juliet mused aloud. Her partner was not a shadow, not a mirage. He'd never make it as a spy.

"He didn't," Vick said firmly, her mouth tight. "Someone out there knows something."

"Now you sound like McNab," Juliet threw out, adding a quick, "Chief," when Vick raised a severe eyebrow. She also sounded like Shawn, something Juliet knew enough not to say aloud. "He's worried."

"He's not alone in that worry, Detective," Vick told her, relieving Juliet from saying it first. "Detective Lassiter has a little black book full of enemies."

Juliet blew out of a breath from the side of her mouth. "How could I forget?" She recalled suddenly that following the incident of accidentally inviting hardened criminals to his surprise party, Carlton remained stone-faced with her for a week, giving her the silent treatment. He had even refrained from snapping at her, instead saving all his sharp little outbursts for Buzz McNab, whom he forced to relay messages to her.

Finally, after she'd apologized more times than she could count, she stopped and countered him with, "I've said it as many times as I'm going to. I'm your partner and you should let it go. Forgive me." She gave him the silent treatment after that, until he broke.

"Yes," Vick sighed, "I still think it's a sick little habit too, but after the Petrovich/Salamatchia case, it might not hurt to recheck those files for suspects who might be . . . hiding in the pages."

"Absolutely. Buzz volunteered for fieldwork. The four of us—" Juliet thought it a little strange for the quartet to not include Lassiter but have Buzz _in his place_, filling in. She blinked and shook the thought away. "The four of us can start right now." She started to stand, her mind already whirring with notions of circling back, scouring those files for anything she, or Shawn or Gus, might have missed.

Still, it nagged her that not one of the men or women who had threatened her partner had been recently released—not in as recent as even six months ago. Her train of thought wandered back to Salamatchia, so hell bent on getting rid of Lassiter and Buzz that he had admitted it on the stand at his trial, much to his lawyer's dismay, saying that he would try again if he was given another chance. Could it be possible that Salamatchia was pulling strings from his maximum security cell?

Juliet almost had an urge to sit back down, feeling suddenly unsteady. But she kept trust on her feet to hold her weight, for her knees not to buckle. If Shawn was right, and some assailant had taken her partner, what could be the outcome other than a bullet to the back of the head—Salamatchia's last failed attempt?

"Detective." Juliet turned back towards Vick. Juliet noticed, for the first time, the dark circles around her eyes. Vick sighed. "I want you to give me those files before you and McNab leave. A fresh eye wouldn't hurt."

Juliet heard what was underneath the words in much clearer tone: _Go now, while it's still daylight. Go now, before the entire 48 hour window is closed. _"Right away, Chief."

"And it wouldn't hurt if you let McNab drive," Vick called after her. "So you can get a little rest yourself!"

Juliet ignored her, pulling out her cell phone. She hoped Shawn and Gus could meet them, when she and Buzz got back.


	7. Chapter 6: No Passion In Neutral

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Thank you for the wonderful reviews and encouragement from everyone! Hope you enjoy this update. :) Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are always welcomed and appreciated. Happy reading! :)

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**Chapter Six: Habitually High On Suggestion, There's No Passion In Neutral**

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X X X

Buzz put his hand on her arm. "Are you sure you want to do this, Detective?" he asked as they both looked toward the gates of the prison. It was a grip firm enough to give her pause, but she couldn't tell if it was worry or anger or something else.

Juliet looked into Buzz's eyes, waiting for a good reason to come to her. She had been the one in the cemetery, facing Salamatchia, forced to be weaponless, waiting then for the solider-turned-father-turned-murderer to make his move.

But Buzz had been the one injured by Salamatchia's murder attempt. Juliet sighed and sat back in her seat. She remembered her own sweaty palms as she tried to climb over Buzz's fence, looking for him, and the relief when he'd appeared, unharmed. And then a few seconds later, on the way to her car, the explosion which sent her scrambling back, again fearing she had been too late.

Juliet looked out the window again. Too late. "I'm not sure this isn't a waste of time," she admitted, still gazing at the prison. "But then again, I'm not sure it is."

Buzz was quiet, which led Juliet to believe he wasn't following her. She couldn't blame him; she wasn't being as clear as she wanted to be. "It's just . . . what if this is a viable lead?"

"But what if it isn't?" Buzz countered softly.

Juliet turned back to him, still looking for that good reason.

Buzz pursed his lips. "I don't think he would give you anything, even if he knew something. He still wants to kill us, well, kill me and Detective Lassiter. But I'll go in with you if you still want to go. Not that you need me to go with you, Detective," he added quickly.

Juliet patted his arm. She considered it, the two of them meeting with Salamatchia _if_ he would see them; considered if having Buzz at her side would help or hurt her case; considered if she'd rather face him alone to make her shallow demands.

_Lassiter, where are you? _Juliet thought again about what Shawn had said—that they were most likely dealing with an abduction, not a murder. Not a hijacking or mugging gone wrong, but a _planned_—

"You're right, Buzz," Juliet said, interrupting her own racing thoughts. "It's terribly unpleasant, but you're right—Salamatica wouldn't waste time with kidnapping, he'd just shoot. And if he hired someone . . ." She closed her eyes. "No, you're right. Let's go."

"Go inside?" Buzz asked, somber, obviously now following her train of thought.

"No," Juliet said, shaking her head. "Let's go look in another place. This is a dead end."

X X X

"Did you betray her? Did she betray you?" Mr. Spencer repeated, his words sharp with derision and pity. "I'm sensing . . . she betrayed you, didn't she? She traded you in for another man, a better man, or gave you up for money or drugs. And now you want to know where she is so you can offer up payback."

Emil snapped, his vision blurred with red. His closed fists opened as he flew at his captive.

Emil took a step back, his hand print bright on Lassiter's face. Lassiter looked up, wondering if Emil was about to put both hands around his throat. He stood in front of Lassiter, just out of reach of his legs.

"Do _not_ persuade me to hit you again," Emil seethed, both hands at his sides in fists. He stopped short of ordering Mr. Spencer to bear his Anja no ill will, or speak of her with lies in his heart. His captive did not cringe at this, just as he had not cringed or even cried out at the vicious slap. All he had done was grit his teeth and take it, looking up much too soon with too much curiosity. "As I have stated previously, I would rather not hurt you—"

"But you're more than capable of causing pain," Lassiter interrupted. "I . . ." His eyes narrowed. "I'll try not to forget that."

Emil frowned. "You did not forget." He backed up, retreating to his wall and sinking back down into a squat. His eyes narrowed. "Is this part of your process, Mr. Spencer? Angering your clients, frustrating them, wasting time?"

Lassiter's lips parted. He recalled clearly once asking Spencer what his process was, and getting an answer most undesirable—especially with his career on the line. _He considers himself my _client_?_ he thought, stifling a snort. "Not one of them has ever attacked me, if that's what you're asking," Lassiter answered flippantly.

He adopted a smug look, one he had seen on Spencer's mug a hundred times before, enjoying a few seconds of power before his kidnapper leapt at him again, standing up and closing the small gap in one fluid motion. He looked like a man on the brink, almost nothing like the cool, restrained persona he'd given so far, even when holding the knife blade and making threats or promises. His fist slammed into Lassiter's nose, a hit hard enough to make him bleed. It hurt as much as the slap had but again, Lassiter kept the pain to himself. He felt a thin stream of blood slide down to his lips. _So this is who you really are._

Emil took one more jab at him, missing his nose when Lassiter abruptly turned his head but getting a solid hit to the right side of his mouth. Carlton grunted softly but expressed no other pain. His face was on fire. Carefully, he moved his jaw. No teeth were loose; only his good looks were taking the beating for now.

Emil again backed up, this time staring at his own still clenched fist. He had Mr. Spencer's blood on him. It was peculiar to find out that this mild-mannered man could bring out a beast in him, one that he had forcibly suppressed for years. He found himself shaken, feeling rage race up and down his arms.

"You would be surprised, Mr. Spencer," Emil hissed, "what those driven to desperation will do."

Lassiter bit his tongue hard, letting the pain slur his words. One of these times, he would surely draw blood. "You're sure you don't mean those driven to distraction? I've . . . I've heard it both ways." It sounded like some double misspeak of Spencer's, and Lassiter kicked himself for saying that last bit aloud. He could imagine, if in the company of Spencer, Guster and O'Hara, raised eyebrows, confusion and possibly smirks, not necessarily in that order. It was, after all, _not_ surprising what desperation could lead someone to do.

The misspeak was obviously lost on Emil; in spite of Lassiter's earlier realization that Emil knew _very little_ about exactly _what_ Spencer was like in person, he still tried to tread as lightly as possible—literally, being airy and misleading whenever seemed necessary.

Emil shook his head slowly. "Mr. Spencer, you know what I have asked of you—and you know that I patience to spare."

Lassiter opened his mouth to protest that he could easily "out patience" Emil in any extended waiting game, but his words failed him. _Spencer_ had little patience for anything, especially anything involving police procedure; he wanted things done yesterday (done by someone else) so he and Guster could scoot off to get a snack, something gooey and cheesy and generally bad for the arteries.

So Carlton went for the truth. "But you're a desperate man, you've just admitted it. Your patience is failing." He moved his tongue across his lips in spite of not wanting to taste his own blood.

Lassiter wondered about this faceless woman Emil was this desperate to contact—was she merely another fiction, a female version of Emil Frey that he'd created for companionship while in solitary, or was she as real and slick as he, not disgusted with getting her own hands dirty?

Frey hovered, seeming to wait for a secret answer which Lassiter didn't have. Or perhaps he was trying to decide if he wanted to beat more sense into his captive.

Knowing what was expected of him was of little importance as he waited to the see if Emil's reaction—if he had a reaction—was with words or fists. As Lassiter tried to conjure up Spencer's "psychic gifts", an image of Henry Spencer flashed at the back of his mind. He could not, for the life of him, fathom the "psychicness" being hereditary, passed down from grandfather to father to son; in fact, Henry Spencer seemed to loathe psychics as much as he did, making it especially strange that he still endorsed his son's antics, even with rolled eyes. Lassiter could not imagine Henry raising hands to temples and "predicting" things; hell no, Henry was a cop, same as he was.

_You should call him,_ a thought told Lassiter, point blank. Lassiter held that disbelieving image, that balding sour puss, in his head as long as he could, not daring to breathe. He should call Henry, shouldn't he? Let him know his _son_ was all right?

Lassiter stole a phantom glance at Emil, who had moved a few paces back, but was not at the wall. Only a sliver of light was catching the whites of his eyes, the only indication there was another living, breathing, calculating entity in the small space with him. _Not now,_ Carlton thought. But there might come the time when he could ask the question and wait for Emil to answer, wait for Emil to give it to him. Since he had a good eight years on Spencer, he had to play it right; why would someone over forty want to make a connection to his father, perilous situation or not?

Lassiter moved his tongue over his lips, still tasting his own blood on his chapped lips. He could use some water, but not yet so badly that he was willing to beg. Again.

X X X

As if he were suddenly the mind-reader, Emil stopped looking at his own hands and straightened. He was still panting with fury, his breath quick in and out through his nose. In spite of Mr. Spencer's size in comparison to his own, his friend was restrained, and unless he could manage to wrap his legs around Emil's body—a feat Emil deemed impossible in the small space—it would be fairly easy for Emil to kill him. He would not, in fact, even need the knife in his pocket, the cool weapon he kept more to threaten. Nor would he need the Glock he took off his prisoner. Just some quick, hard pressure around the throat would do it, with his bare hands, or even with his teeth.

Emil backed away, though it was unnecessary as Mr. Spencer had drawn in his legs. Without an utterance, he fled the room, perceiving its darkness reach out and try to catch him about the waist.

He'd done that, had to do that, once, while he was in prison, to defend himself. Clamp his teeth onto another prisoner's neck, bit down and ignore the blood filling his mouth. Now, as he moved through the narrow hallway, ignoring the other small, darkened storage spaces, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand as if repulsed by someone's kiss, as if he could still taste that blood as it filled his mouth.

Emil forced the images from his mind, annoyed that so much time had not made them more vague, or erased them entirely. Reaching another small room, one with an old steel sink, he grabbed a jar and stuck it under the faucet. When it was full, he covered it and filled another. By the time he had filled and covered four, the beat of his blood had steadied and a comfortable blankness had returned to conceal his appetite for violence. He made his way back.

X X X

"Here, my friend," Emil told him without a trace of irony, carefully setting down the jars of water where the empty one still sat.

Lassiter looked up at him, his bloodied mouth turned down in a scowl. "How do you expect—" he began bitterly, thinking he was being tricked.

When Emil made to touch him, Lassiter involuntarily flinched, cursing himself for giving that away. Perhaps it was the dim light which kept the gesture secret, or that Emil could have been distracted, but if he saw it he did not acknowledge it. When Emil's hand landed on Lassiter's shoulder, Carlton kept his body rigid and didn't lean away. "Are you hungry, my friend?" his captor asked him, squeezing his shoulder for emphasis.

Lassiter held his breath, waiting for the punch line, or for another punch.

"You will need sustenance to continue your search," Emil spoke in Lassiter's silence. "I must provide for you, Mr. Spencer, so you will provide in return." His tone was eerily light, which left Carlton confused and suspicious. Why had he brought so much water and why was he offering to feed him all out of the blue? And why, most of all why, the grip on his shoulder? It was . . . oddly friendly, though Carlton hated it as much as his captor's violence.

"I will leave you, to drink and to . . . take care of your needs," Emil said with a touch of finality, waving his hand towards a darkened corner off to Lassiter's left. He released Lassiter's shoulder only to grab a wrist. Before he could protest or shrug away, Lassiter heard the chains connecting his arms to his waist release. Both arms fell to his sides, but the relief that came was tempered. The manacles remained around his wrists like twin bracelets, dangling shorter chains which had been attached to the waist chain. But he could at least move his arms. He could probably stand halfway now without difficultly and test his tether from the wall. His fingers moved around the length of the chain still wound around his waist, two times tight. It had a small padlock keeping it in place. Nothing short of drastic weight loss would get it off his body save for its key.

"Why are you doing this?" Lassiter asked, moving a shaking arm up to touch his mouth. One lip was swollen, split. His captor backed out of his reach again, and though his face gave away nothing, he was a man ready to bolt. "Are you going to let me go?"

Still facing him, Emil moved toward the open doorway. "We have business to conduct, Mr. Spencer. We still have business." The light tone was gone and old persona returned as if to stay for good. He took another step back and became the shadows themselves, melting into them.

"Emil?" Lassiter called out after nearly a minute of staring out into those shadows, the hairs on the back of his neck raised as if someone was still there, watching him, just out of sight. He couldn't even hear an echo of his own voice.

_Soundproof?_ Lassiter swung his eyes to the ceiling, convincing himself after a few seconds that the shadows above his head could be stone. Without giving his muscles time to adjust, he threw himself against the wall and pushed himself upright, gritting his teeth when his stiff legs and arms protested. Like a toddler attempting his first steps, Carlton pushed off the wall too quickly and stumbled towards the open doorway.

The chain around his waist jerked him backwards after only three steps. It was at least five to make it to the door. Not expecting the shift in momentum, Carlton gasped as he lost his footing. He tried not to fall, scrambling backwards to give the chain its slack, but both knees still hit the cold stone floor when he tripped and he landed sprawled on his left side, bumping his the side of his head on the ground. His heart beat a wild tempo in his ears. _Goddammit. I was so close!_ he chided himself, clenching his jaw to keep from moaning aloud.

Carlton didn't move for several minutes, allowing his body to catch up with his brain and tell him first what hurt before he got a look for himself. It was the time it took for the realization to set in: he was alone. Outside of his thudding heart and staggered breath, there were no muted footsteps, no other sounds at all. He didn't dare speak his captor's name again, lest he summon him back too soon.

His head rested uncomfortably in the patch of shadow Emil had gestured to. A dank smell was invading his nostrils, even more so now that his face was so close to the wall. He coughed, moving the air and getting a stronger whiff. Startling, Carlton pushed himself up on an elbow, pulling himself back when he caught a _swish_ of the chain's slack on the floor, under his stomach. He tested it gingerly, climbing to his hands and knees, inching forward until he was entirely hidden by shadow.

The sudden coldness in his bladder, a bodily function he'd forgotten while disoriented and thirsty, reminded him of what Emil had said about taking care of needs. He moved quickly, with the urgency of having his privacy interrupted at any moment, and then eased himself back to the spot where he'd been sitting while Emil sat across from him.

The fabric on the knees of his pants was intact, but Carlton felt tender spots where he had fallen. And a brief probing of his left arm revealed more places that were starting to bruise. He had even managed to cut his temple, just enough to send a small trickle of blood down his face. It wasn't much, just like his bloody nose hadn't been much, but it didn't help to accrue new injuries, no matter how small. _It's as if the goddamn floor is made of glass,_ he thought bitterly, feeling stupid he'd hurt himself because he'd forgotten he couldn't actually get away.

He spent a little time tugging fiercely at the chain holding him to wall, annoyed that neither it nor the ring it was attached to it budged. He stopped when his hands started to ache.

If Emil had been afraid of leaving his captive alone, he wouldn't have released Lassiter's arms. He would have bound his legs instead and probably gagged him, just in case there was a person with good enough hearing somewhere nearby, above him or somewhere outside of this space. Or if not that, then a quick shot of tranquilizer would have done the trick. Sighing heavily, Lassiter leaned back against the wall.

No one knew where he was, but he believed that at least his partner would know he was missing and do her damnedest to find out where he could be. And because he'd been thwarted before making it to Guster's tap dance class, he hoped his absence would have been noticed by Guster, who would probably bitch about it to Spencer, who might bitch about it to O'Hara . . . Carlton closed his eyes. This better _not_ be the one time when Guster and Spencer chose to keep quiet about something, or wrote it off as an _not important enough_ for a second look.

Since accepting O'Hara back after her hiatus from police work, Carlton had spent most of their last case pushing her away. But he had grown tired of having Guster as his partner, and luckily for him, O'Hara and Spencer had not made the best partners either. "When I said it was good to have you back, I meant it," Carlton said quietly, solemn as he remembered O'Hara smiling back at him, agreeing that it was good to be back.

Absently, he reached for one of the water jars, unscrewing the top. He didn't bother to look at the water's color before putting it to his lips. He drank slowly, swishing some of it around his dry mouth before swallowing. O'Hara would enlist their damn psychic help, and she would be able to convince Vick that_ her partner_ would not just vanish into thin air. He knew she could be very persuasive.

_Did I just vanish? Into thin air?_ Lassiter wondered, finding some of his earlier fear creep back into his limbs. He titled his head against the wall with delayed fatigue. _Someone . . . will find me, if I can't get myself out of here. O'Hara can do it. _He rolled his eyes and grimaced._ Or . . ._ _even if it's Spencer, I don't care. _He winced and recalled Emil's "driven to desperation" declaration, ample justification for his criminal acts. _I suppose that's how it is for me as well. _

Why else would he cooperate in spite of being threatened within an inch of his life? His mask of stubbornness was falling off, he knew it. It helped less that Emil had attacked him, then backed off and tried to be "nice". Now Carlton was even _hoping_ for Shawn Spencer to rescue him. _That doesn't leave this room,_ he told himself fiercely. _Spencer can never know that I . . . might need him. But _only_ if there's no one else. _

_There's McNab. Send him first, if O'Hara isn't available, _Carlton thought, starting to close his eyes. Out of bounds of his consciousness, a small thought nagged him about Spencer coming to his rescue, not just because he was that smug, teasing, self-righteous Spencer.

It was because he, Lassiter, was supposed to _be_ Spencer in this f—upped alternate reality. "It's no good, no good," Lassiter muttered as he drifted off to sleep. "Don't send him."

X X X

Lassiter dozed after a jar and a half of semi-murky water, never achieving a full or deep sleep. His eyes kept blinking open, a constant reminder that he was not at home, safe in his own bed, or on a stakeout with O'Hara, or catching a few ZZs on a cot behind the room with the lockers at the station. He did not want to be unconscious when Emil returned, did not want to wake to again find that disconcerting gaze cutting through his own less aware state of mind.

He couldn't tell how long he dozed, or even the time of day. The little window far above his head was too grime-covered to discern day or night.

He couldn't rule out that there wasn't anything in the water, like drugs or poison, but since he hardly felt worse for the wear because it, he resigned to drink as much as he was allowed. If there was another physical fight—a fairer or far less fairer fight—between them, being too dehydrated would only hinder any efforts Carlton might have to gain an upper hand. Food, he didn't need, not yet, but water he shouldn't go without.

Not even for another psychological fight, which had to be coming the second Emil got back.


End file.
